The Undying
by PurityRabbit
Summary: "What can change the nature of a man?" In the tunnels beneath Silvermoon, Rommath toys with living nightmares—while secretly he still dreams of the prince who betrayed them all. Post-WotLK, Pre-Cata. Discont'd/UP FOR ADOPTION.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: The inimitable World of Warcraft and the characters, settings, and languages it contains are the property of Blizzard. I make no claim to them; this fic is not intended for commercial use.

The quote from the summary is taken from one of the whispers the PC gets while attempting to solve Yogg-Saron's puzzle box.

This story is set between the events of WotLK and Cata, so it's brimming with spoilers (including, much later, a few from Cata). Due warning issued.

**The Undying  
**PurityRabbit

Prologue

The news that the Lich King is dead should bring him nothing but satisfaction, but Rommath is too weary to celebrate.

All he can see from the top of Sunfury Spire is what looks like an endless line of veterans weaving their way into the city, the first heroes come home from the war (but they're not the heroes, not really, the dark part of him whispers). The Regent Lord is busy, shaking hands and embracing people he doesn't know and attending council meetings and preparing the city for the next influx: the wounded, returning home to rest or to die. It all seems somehow hollow, as though the three of them—Lor'themar, Brightwing, and Rommath—are rushing around to avoid thinking, to avoid having to see.

Where there are heroes there should be Knights, but there are no Kings, not anymore.

Rommath holds this piece of knowledge close to his chest, feeling the coldness, the bitterness of it. He remembers his own homecoming, the people stirring from apathy into a slowly growing exhilaration. Faces upturned towards him. The promise, _his _promise. He takes the memory out sometimes and looks at it, and it makes him feel ancient to think that he was once that man, once lived in that world. There is no joy this time. His people are battered, and so weary that every gaze he meets seems blank.

And, really, he _is_ ancient. That's the difference now. The worst part about getting old is the tiredness, the feeling he gets early every evening that he would like to retire to bed and just sleep and sleep forever. The night after a messenger arrives from Undercity in the court of the Regent Lord, breathless, his chest heaving with the news, all Rommath can do is drag his feet up the stairs to his apartments and fall into a bath.

He knows he should be exultant, glowing with triumph, and he tries to at least look the part, but he doesn't feel anything. Just annoyance at his Magisters' pestering. And resignation to the fact that he is now an antique, a relic of a bygone era consigned to obsolescence. He feels age settling into his bones the way frost settles on branches. His feelings harden at the same time as his body weakens. He grits his teeth and tilts his chin up even as he leans on his staff for support. Yes, growing old is bad enough—but to disintegrate within sight of a public which hates him, that is one step too far.

Everyone warns against the regrets, the disrespect, the loneliness—that he expected. But the weakness has caught him off guard. He remembers his young, strong muscles, obedient to his slightest wish. Dancing for what seemed like hours; swimming in rivers thick with icy slush; running through the streets of old Silvermoon, his movements as swift as the wind. One night, when he was sleeping, it seems that his body had been replaced with a rickety model that can do none of these things. He cannot join in the commoners' celebrations, although they are muted even by his standards. The cost they have paid, all of them, is too high. There is too much grief, too much memory.

Maybe that is why there is no dancing, no rejoicing, just remembering and endless nights spent in his office in the Spire, bent over estimates of the costs of the war. He's glad that the duty of counting the dead falls to someone else. Sometimes, on the nights when the entire city seems hushed with expectation and the air doesn't even carry the sound of wind, he can pretend that nothing has changed, that everything is as it was before: the prince still alive, his own reputation still intact, and endless possibility stretching out before all of them.

It's never clear, the point at which imagination gives way to dreaming.

What rankles worst is that it was their betrayers, their filthy mongrel cousins, and the lesser races that carried out what seemed to him only an impossible vision. The immortal horror of the Lich King is put to rest, and he would be able to rest too were it not for the fact that it was put to rest by their rivals.

"We should be grateful for what they have done," Brightwing says, and Rommath is, he really is—he just wishes that the final blow had been dealt by a friendlier hand. It gives him no pleasure to admit that his people's vengeance was carried out by the enemy. Now he will have to spend his remaining years in secret gratitude to the Alliance.

But that is another thing about old age—after a while, not even kindness can soften your heart.


	2. I

Disclaimer: The inimitable World of Warcraft and the characters, settings, and languages it contains are the property of Blizzard. I make no claim to them; this fic is not intended for commercial use.

Warning: This chapter contains some implied m/m. It's pretty soft-core but still, if you don't like that, you probably won't like this.

**The Undying**  
PuriRabbit

Part One

I

"Would Master like some assistance?" the goblin behind Rommath asks.

Rommath stands before his mirror, draping and redraping a cloak around his shoulders. The night is fast approaching, drawing a layer of shadow over his dressing room. He can barely see his reflection, and squinting into the gloom only frustrates him further. He knows that he should just light the lamps, toss on his cloak and leave, but the old desire to get things right—no, to get things _perfect_—holds him back.

His goblin butler hovers behind him, and Rommath can fairly hear him hum with nervousness. "Shall Goldcrank light the lamps for Master?"

Another try. Like _this._

No, still bad.

Rommath sighs and lets the cloak slip to the floor again. "Yes, Goldcrank."

Goldcrank has to light the lanterns in the room by hand where Rommath could have done it instantly, but he does not complain, racing around with a match as though he were lighting the beacon of Silvermoon itself. As the room slowly brightens, Rommath can see his figure emerge through the darkness in the mirror. He tosses his cloak over his right shoulder and, finally pleased, tries to smile at his reflection. The elf he sees barely smiles back. He registers how fragile, how guarded he looks, the smudges of weariness beneath his eyes.

He reaches for his staff, balancing himself against the bookcase as he does so. Now, finally, he looks the part: tall and imperious and exotic, if also a little physically weak. The epitome of the Magister. All the power of the cosmos in his hands, and he can barely walk.

"Master looks dazzling," Goldcrank says, and despite his own misgivings Rommath knows he means it. "Is Master ready to go yet? Young Sir will be waiting."

Young Sir is indeed waiting, reclining on a couch in the sitting room and drumming his fingers on the leather. When he sees Rommath, however, he starts and leaps to his feet, fingers smoothing his rumpled mantle.

"My apologies, Fanalen," Rommath says. "I hope I did not keep you waiting too long."

Fanalen makes a humming noise which Rommath is sure is meant to indicate approval. "Brother, I see you're looking as good as ever." He snickers. "The reason for the delay, no doubt."

"Idle flattery disguises no complaints," Rommath says, but he knows that Fanalen is right, and that he is fooling no one. Gone are the days when he could rise from bed after a night of studying and be out the door. "Vanity is a young man's game, I suppose."

Fanalen's smile broadens a shade. "Don't remind me—I know it as well as any."

Before they leave, Goldcrank spends a few more minutes fussing over Rommath's hem, which he accuses the tailor of having ruined—out of meanness and bad mind, or so Goldcrank insists. Rommath resigns himself to his attention. There are few enough servants who survived the War: Goldcrank's continued existence is testament to an archness which Rommath respects.

Outside, the air is cool with the encroaching winter; Rommath can see leaves flutter from the trees, red against the dying light. The family compound is at last completely silent after so many centuries of bustle. Goldcrank walks behind them, his arms full with a crate of wine, droning a song about airships and busty barmaids. Rommath limps along, one hand on his staff, the other on Fanalen's arm.

"That butler of yours gets more like mother every day," says Fanalen.

"I won't have you insulting the help," Rommath says, but he is glancing around as he always does. One of these days he is certain that he will step outside and a blade will catch him in the side, gutting him. The flash of silver before the end. But he is always vigilant, and the blow never comes.

Still, he sees Fanalen tense beside him as soon as they are outside of the gates, feels his muscles tighten through his robes. Fanalen is not his brother, not really—he is a Sunsorrow, adopted by the family centuries ago when Rommath's father was still alive—but he is cunning, loyal, and strong, and Rommath likes him more than he likes most of his blood relatives.

"Dawnstriker's estate is just down the hill," he says. "It isn't far."

"Fortunately for you, brother."

Rommath laughs, but he feels the sound die in his throat. Fanalen is his companion, yes, but Rommath is old enough to know that that means nothing. That is why Goldcrank comes along, and not just to help the host's servants in the kitchen. The powerful must always have someone they can trust, even if that someone is an outsider. Maybe especially.

The Dawnstriker estate is glowing from behind the bars of its fence, light spilling out through a lattice of trees and steel. Servants hasten them inside the courtyard, a few stealing furtive glances at him when they think he isn't looking. He does not meet their gaze, nor does he have any desire to stare them down. They are merely surprised to see him, to see that he is as thin and frail as any old nobleman. Not the supernatural monster with flame for eyes that they've come to expect: just an elf, and nothing more.

Lord Dawnstriker is waiting for them at the main entrance—undoubtedly having been warned who, precisely, these particular guests are.

"Grand Magister," he says, bowing so that his golden hair nearly brushes the floor. And then, as an afterthought: "Ambassador Sunsorrow. You honour our simple gathering with your presence."

"Not at all—you honour us with the invitation," Rommath says.

"And you have so kindly brought wine," says Dawnstriker, without looking at Goldcrank. "Might I have one of my servants bring it to the kitchen?"

"Quite unnecessary. I thought to bring my own help," Rommath says, as if Dawnstriker cannot see the small, green creature right before him. "I know what a strain such parties can be."

Lord Dawnstriker looks torn between pleasure and insult: bringing a servant is a sign of both consideration and suspicion, and in the case of the Grand Magister, doubly so.

"The Grand Magister is far too kind," Dawnstriker says at last. "My servants will lead it to the kitchens. May I show you in?"

Rommath inclines his head in acceptance; they follow Dawnstriker through a series of cavernous rooms, the walls glittering in the lamplight. Ancient Dawnstrikers glower down at them from portraits, their glares eaten into by age and decay.

"Your estate is magnificent, my Lord," Fanalen says.

"Restored to its former glory at last," Dawnstriker says. He looks at Rommath. "I remember very keenly to whom I owe its beauty."

Yes, Rommath thinks, I as well. "Our city would not be our city were it not for your illustrious home."

Fanalen rolls his eyes when Dawnstriker's back is to them.

The great hall is surprisingly crowded, and when they enter Rommath feels the heat of countless eyes upon him. He straightens, pushing his shoulders back and making eye contact with a few particularly bold guests. There was a time, long ago, when he shied away from such events, hated to be the centre of attention. He has adapted.

"You remember my son, Cirlean," Dawnstriker is saying, and a tall boy sweeps towards them, his expression sullen. Rommath does not remember him.

"Your Grace," the boy says. There is an edge to his voice, but his comportment is respectful enough that his father only glares at him. "How do you do?"

"Cirlean has just entered the Academy to begin his magical studies," Dawnstriker says.

Rommath has trouble caring at all; another dim apprentice. So what? Long ago magic was as thick as paste in the noble blood, but that was in another world, in another time. No longer. Now Cirlean is just handsome and useless, and Rommath's Magisters will have to watch him constantly to make sure he doesn't blow himself to bits.

"Oh, father," Cirlean says, pretending to be bashful, but he doesn't lower his eyes from Rommath's face. Perhaps not a true mage, then, but with a true mage's arrogance.

"My goodness," Fanalen says, nodding across the room. "My dear Lord Dawnstriker, that can't be your daughter. How she's grown!"

Dawnstriker's attention is immediately Fanalen's. "Yes, that is my little doe. Lovely isn't she?"

"An understatement, to be sure," Fanalen says.

"Let me introduce you," Dawnstriker says, and Rommath can see him doing the calculations, the way in which a marriage to the adopted brother of the Grand Magister can help him.

"Have fun," Fanalen whispers, and then immediately leaves his side with the two lords. Rommath is left to fend off the throngs of careerists and sycophants.

There are few apprentices in the crowd—those of noble blood, comparatively talentless and therefore uninteresting, and they wisely avoid him. Rommath has not worked so hard to reach his position to suffer fools. Still, he sees a few of them glance over their shoulders in his direction, and he knows that they are both attracted and intimidated. They will spend the evening working up their courage to talk to him, only to lose their daring the moment they meet his eyes.

He spends a few minutes wandering around the periphery of the room, studying the other guests while a few particularly persistent admirers attempt to talk to him. His status attracts more than a few eyes: the real downside of renown is that you can never be simply invisible. When he was younger Rommath found it disconcerting, then thrilling, then alarming. Now he just finds the constant scrutiny tiring.

Astalor is at the other end of the room, leaning against a column. When he sees Rommath, however, he straightens, tossing his hair over his shoulder. Rommath pointedly ignores his gaze, but Astalor heads directly for him.

"Grand Magister," he says, sweeping into a bow.

"Magister Bloodsworn," Rommath says. The crowd of minor Arcanists and mountaineering nobles around him falls silent as soon as he speaks. "A delight, as always."

"And you as well." Rommath notices that Bloodsworn does not so much as bother to look at the group around him. "It's a pleasant surprise to see you here. I understand that these past weeks have been most taxing for you."

"One can never be too busy to celebrate such a great victory."

"Of course. But as they say: time is unkind to the powerful. I'm sure your hours are simply packed full." (Is he simpering? He is!)

Rommath's look is stony enough to make even Astalor straighten and lower his gaze a little. "We must all do our duty, and we must do it with dignity. I am not an exception. Quite the contrary."

"Well said, and truly!" someone says from behind him.

Astalor laughs, clearly dismayed at his failure to warm Rommath. "On the contrary, you are a paragon of devotion." He glances around, his expression becoming scornful. "Leave us. His Grace and I must speak."

The group dissipates, and Rommath exhales. He always feels faintly nervous in the presence of flatterers, and his nervousness in turn annoys him.

"Sorry for my heavy-handedness," says Astalor, leading him to a well-appointed table. "Let's have a drink."

Astalor pours Rommath a glass of wine, before he himself takes a rather large tumbler of some clear, strong smelling alcohol in hand. They move out onto the balcony, past clouds of smoke, the sound of laughter. The night air breaks against him and is crisp enough to wake him from his languor.

"Dreary, isn't it?" Astalor says.

"I was never one for parties."

"And yet here you are," Astalor says. "Showing support for the noble families. Are times truly so desperate, old friend?"

If only you knew, Rommath thinks. "Not at all. There was no real _need_ for me to come. It simply looks... suspect to be chronically absent from the celebrations. "

"A political visit, then."

Rommath pretends to take a drink. "More like a reminder," he says, "that I still exist, and that they still need me, and you, and all of us."

"Oh, of course," Astalor says, "you are always needed. You bestow upon even the silliest get-together some much-needed dignity."

"Truly, with emphasis on the 'much-needed'." Rommath scans the room behind them. "Any guests I ought to meet?"

Astalor sips his wine, his eyes fixed on a broad-shouldered elf with pale blond hair. "You fake your interest well. Look. Duyash is here."

Duyash _is _present, wandering around at the fringes of the room and occasionally fingering a tapestry. Rommath hasn't seen him speak to anyone. His clothing is tasteful for the event, his stance flawlessly casual, but he glares at the guests from under his eyebrows, and Rommath can see the swell of armour beneath his robes.

"Why on earth is _he_ here?" Astalor opens his mouth to speak, but Rommath interrupts. "Don't tell me. Someone else—a noble—is under suspicion."

"Of course—what else?"

What else, indeed. "For espionage?"

"For treason."

Rommath tastes something bitter and hot rise in the back of his throat at the sound of the word. Treason. He suddenly feels as though he has had too much to drink, although he's not had anything at all. He's never been stupid enough to let his guard down, not yet, but there's always the fear that he's getting slower, gentler, like some fat herd animal plumped up for the slaughter.

"There are some who worry that certain nobles might take advantage of the... the _peace_ to disrupt the ruling council." Astalor glances at Duyash again. "For various reasons—"

"Prime amongst them, no doubt, that two-thirds of us are of low birth, with little concern for their interests," says Rommath.

"Yes, well, while you're hardly a prime target, do be careful."

"Do they fear an assassination?" He finds the word oddly thrilling, but Astalor shivers.

"Heavens, no! It's only a suspicion now, no more than a whisper in some circles. More likely that they'll start petitioning, or try to work things the old fashioned way—through marriage. Still. Better to nip such things in the bud, as they say. No one can know how such feelings will evolve."

"A wise doctrine." Rommath tosses his wine into a nearby flowerbed. "So was I invited to be offered one of the sweet virgins of House Dawnstriker as a prize?"

Astalor snorts. "Sweet virgins. Oh, what a joke."

Rommath laughs, and then gestures to the doors. "Shall we?"

Back inside, the music has begun. He and Astalor exchange pained looks: there is very little overlap between the best mages and the best dancers (although word is that the Proudmoore wench... but never mind that.)

"Let's find the host," Astalor says in a low voice. Rommath has resigned himself to his company for the rest of the evening. "Perhaps we might get some information out of him."

They trace a path around the periphery of the room, with Rommath dodging conversation at every turn. Or attempting to dodge it, at least. It seems that with each step there are bows to accept, thanks to demur, silly-minded apprentices to meet. Their progress is slow, and Astalor's smile grows ever more strained with each greeting.

Rommath spies Fanalen, dancing with the youngest Dawnstriker, the two sweeping across the floor in broad arcs. He himself was never a graceful dancer and these parties always recall to him the endless hours of his father's own events, Rommath standing like a dark, awkward shadow next to his golden brothers. Fanalen always danced with such poise that the guests were forever approaching Rommath's father: _Is that your son? Why, he is a spit of Lanithiel! He even moves as she did!_

But he wasn't a spit of Lanithiel—Rommath was.

He shakes the memories away. Astalor is chattering away to him, trying to look inconspicuous in a way that only makes him look nervous. Fortunately, the unhappy days of dancing are long gone. Rommath's dignity and importance envelop him like a cocoon, and now no one bothers him with such trivial matters. It is expected that he will hover over the festivities, too serious to become truly involved. Finally, after so much time, he is safe from the spectacle of tripping in his partner, and his achievements have dulled the shame of having poor rhythm and no control over his limbs.

He catches sight of Dawnstriker engaged with a tall elf, her silvery hair falling almost to her waist. Her back is to him, and he cannot make out her face, but by Dawnstriker's odd attentiveness he is certain she is beautiful. His intrusion will be unwelcome, but it can't be helped. Some things must take precedence over pleasure. In Rommath's case, everything.

"Leave us," he whispers to Astalor, who moves away from him.

Dawnstriker sees him approach, and quickly transforms his expression of annoyance into graciousness.

"Oh, greetings, Grand Magister. I was just having a little chat with a friend. Care to join us?"

"I thought we might speak, actually," Rommath says, hoping that the girl will get the hint and leave.

She doesn't. He turns to ask her directly, but then recognises her: the long, narrow eyes and smooth forehead. She also faces him, and then her expression thaws into a smile.

"An odd place to meet you, Grand Magister. I don't suppose you remember me?"

"Magistrix Zaedana," he says, almost relieved. Finally, one of his kind. "Yes, of course—I remember all of my Magisters."

"Am I to be flattered?" she says, but he can tell that she is. "Are you enjoying yourself, your Grace?"

"Oh, quite," he lies.

"I noticed you didn't join in the dancing. A pity. I looked for you."

Rommath realises what game they are playing a second too late to extricate himself from it. Oh no. Not this. Not tonight.

"I'm far too old for such things," he says. "And, as you've no doubt noticed, I have great difficulty walking, to say nothing of dancing."

She laughs. "Well, it is hardly gallant to deny a lady, is it? You might have tried."

"Now, now, my dear lady," Dawnstriker says. "The Grand Magister surely has more important things to worry about than dancing."

"All the more reason for him to dance." Her smile grows a little.

Rommath scans the room. Where the hell is Goldcrank when he most needs him? "I was never trained in how to behave in such circumstances."

"Oh, I know," Dawnstriker says, and Rommath gets the feeling he is just trying to stay relevant to the conversation. "The fine line between maintaining one's dignity in old age and one's obligation to lovely young creatures like Lady Zaedana. They don't tell you how hard it will be to navigate."

"Oh, Onerian, you shameless flatterer," she says. "Surely your family beat those good manners into you, as mine did?"

Rommath doesn't want to talk about his family, or good manners, or proceed with this asinine flirtation. He definitely is not interested in competing with Dawnstriker for female attention—if he wants another mistress, let him have her. He wants to ask Zaedana about how her research is going, and whether she will have any findings to present to the Academy by the winter, and what she thinks of the faculty's plan to reduce the speed at which they force the apprentices through. But he knows that such questions would be unwelcome: the few Magisters invited to these events attend to forget their problems, not to be reminded.

Dawnstriker takes the bait, though. "My dear, if you only knew. Still, I suppose such lessons serve us well."

Zaedana seems to have noticed Rommath's boredom, obvious as it must be. She blinks slowly at him, but the effect is that she looks like a sleepy tiger.

"If you won't dance with me," she says, "at least we might walk."

Walk. Yes. Good. Walk away from here, far away. "Of course—it would be my pleasure. I hear the gardens are breathtaking."

She smiles again, this time a private smile, just for him.

"Excuse us," Rommath says. Dawnstriker is looking distinctly put out, but he knows that he has been outclassed in more ways than one. All the same, he will remember this, and it makes Rommath seethe. So much for his resolution to not bruise any more egos. And he's doing it for a girl he doesn't even want.

The gardens _are_ beautiful, halfway wild and beginning to decay with the first touch of frost. The air has gotten even colder; Zaedana shivers and he, hating her and hating himself, gives her his cloak.

"You are too kind."

"Not at all—it would be shameful to let the rose die of the cold, while the bramble lives."

He tries to remember some fact, some little fragment of what he ought to know about her. He's reasonably sure that she's of noble blood, although he can't remember what house. Zaedana—she is beautiful, amazingly beautiful, more like a statue than a living thing. And she's a Magistrix: her talent follows from that. And her cunning. Is it so terrible to spend time with her? Why is he so put out?

They find their way to a pond, shrivelled water lilies strewn across the surface. "My feet hurt," she says. "My fault, of course. I chose the most absurd shoes I own. Might we sit?"

"Of course," he says, looking around. There is no one around to see them; a small mercy.

"So the battle is won," she says, choosing a stone bench. "The monster is dead. We are free."

"So they say."

"You don't believe it?"

"I believe the wretch is dead," he says. He picks up a rock and drops it into the pond, surprised to see a layer of ice crumple beneath it. "But that does not mean our toils are over."

To his surprise, she laughs. "Correct you are, Grand Magister." She looks away. "There is so much to be done. Sometimes I feel that it is overwhelming."

He relaxes in spite of himself. This is something he can talk about, at last. "Everyone has their part to play in the matter. It isn't your duty to face it alone."

"And is it yours?"

He ignores the question. "Your research has been strong. Astalor tells me your work in dual channelling has been ground-breaking—no, don't deny it, I wasn't complimenting you. The burden of our people falls hardest on the most able. Remember that. We expect much of you. We have our greatness to reclaim."

She flushes, and for the first time he sees her without guile.

"Thank you. It feels good to hear praise. Especially from one such as yourself." She glances at him, probably to gauge his reaction, but he keeps his face expressionless. "My family considers me a failure, to be frank," she says. "Already a century old, and no interest in marriage. They're afraid I will become an old maid."

"There is no shame in that," he says, and surprises himself by how much he means it. "You have achieved things for our people that no mere noble lady can dream of—don't let them forget that."

She says nothing for a long moment, and Rommath wonders whether she is thinking. When she speaks again, though, her tone has regained its honeyed quality.

"And what for you now, Grand Magister?"

"The same as ever. I will continue to administer to my duties." He knows that is not what she's asking, and as she slides closer to him, his doubts are confirmed.

"Perhaps now you'll have time to settle down," she says.

"Or perhaps now I'll have time to catch up on my reading. A far more likely possibility."

She smiles, a sideways smile he doesn't care for. "Why more likely? You are still a handsome man, if I may be so bold."

Oh, nonsense. He's sure she finds him about as handsome as he finds Goldcrank. "Ah—an odd act of charity for a man old enough to be your father."

She leans back to laugh, and her hair (he tiredly notes that she's growing it long again) brushes against the seat. He wonders if she truly found his comment amusing. He wonders whether he's being offered something, some sort of noxious deal in which he'll always come out the loser. He feels the context of these niceties floating just beyond his intellectual grasp, like the steps to a dance too complicated to remember.

Politics. A bore. And young women. Even worse. None of his wives were this infuriating. Were they? He can't really remember. What happened to the days when he could just disappear into his studies and the world would forget him in return?

They walk back to the grand hall, and he reclaims his cloak from her, although not before a few servants see them. Zaedana places her hand on his arm as they re-enter. Marking her territory, undoubtedly, for the good of all the noblewomen present. He fights the urge to sigh. Such gestures are designed to look innocent, but in reality she has now secured her place as the talk of the bored aristocrats for the rest of the month. Do they train the girls of Silvermoon in such displays?

"It's been a pleasure," she says, her voice low, "but I must return to my brother—he will worry. Will you call on me?"

There it is: the trap snapping shut. He can hardly say no. But it isn't even that he wants to say no, really. It's that he is utterly indifferent to her.

"Of course," he says. "In time—I have many responsibilities." A lame excuse, but perhaps she will understand. It isn't a lack of interest, exactly. It's just that he hasn't the time for such games, and doesn't want to make the time. There are more pressing matters: urgent meetings, interesting books, and hunting with Father Nishil'ever.

She smiles, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I hope your time is not too long." And with that, she saunters away, adding an exaggerated swing to her hips. He looks away. Zaedana. He doesn't know anything about her, but as he steadies his breathing he realises he is furious. He wants to grab her, to shake her, to say, Don't you care? Don't you care that the city was built on the blood of my daughter, with the sweat of my mages, with _your blood_ and _your _sweat? Doesn't that matter?

He doesn't need to. It doesn't matter, not to her, not to anyone. She doesn't want to remember those things. All she wants is her own estate, her own husband, to be the Lady instead of the Lady's Daughter. Now there is peace and she can finally dream. What right does he have to blame her? He once had dreams of his own.

On his way out, a servant stops him and hands him a folded piece of paper. It is a note from Fanalen, explaining that he is "occupied" and would Rommath please not wait for him? Rommath doesn't need to wonder what, exactly, is occupying Fanalen. Bedding the host's daughter, no doubt.

He and Goldcrank walk home together, much more slowly with the added strain of going uphill. At every turn Goldcrank looks around, his movements jerky, his eyes luminous in the darkness. After being stopped for the fourth time so that Goldcrank can peer into a dark alley, Rommath loses his temper.

"Must we investigate yet another side street? Are you hoping your malicious tailor is down there, so we might ambush him?"

Goldcrank looks up at him, his expression hurt, almost baleful.

"Goldcrank has heard rumours that the ruling council is in danger. He worries for Master's safety."

"It appears that such rumours breed like men," Rommath says. "It hardly seems appropriate that even the servants speak of this."

"The servants know because their Masters and Mistresses know. The noble elves are very chatty, very gossipy—Goldcrank hopes kind, kind Master will forgive this rudeness—and they think that gnomes and goblins cannot hear and cannot understand. But they can, and they talk to each other about what the nobles say. Goldcrank knows exactly what the nobles are doing, and which elves are bad elves. That is so he can protect Master."

"That is most kind, Goldcrank," Rommath says, "but you must forgive me if I worry over your own loose talk. For if your friends speak of their masters, surely you must speak of yours."

He thinks that he can see Goldcrank smile. "Master is smarter than the other nobles. That is why he is in charge and they are not."

Rommath laughs, genuinely, for what seems like the first time in years. "Goldcrank, Master is smart enough to know when he is being flattered, and when the subject is being changed. Now, why don't you redeem yourself by telling him what you learned tonight?"

Goldcrank beams, and the danger around them seems to dissipate. "Okay. Goldcrank would really like that." He leans back, and begins to tick off the statements on his fingers as they walk. "Goldcrank hears that on Sunday mornings Lady Hazydawn sneaks out the servants' entrance when she thinks no one is looking, and then she runs to the Farstriders' Square and does dirty things with the animals."

"Goldcrank, I don't think—"

"Also, Goldcrank heard that Ambassador Kelemar likes lady trolls—_really _likes them. Sometimes he pays one to come to his house and hit him with a belt! Goldcrank thinks that that is twisted. Oh, and Knight-Lord Bloodvalor only wears women's undergarments. Everyone who knows is mad, because can Master imagine what would happen if he died and the Alliance stripped his body? Very embarrassing for Silvermoon, Goldcrank thinks."

"Well," says Rommath as they enter his compound, "that is all quite interesting, but not precisely what I had in mind. I was wondering more about the political situation."

Goldcrank looks disappointed. "About assassinations?"

"Yes. What have you heard?"

"Goldcrank hasn't heard much. Every noble thinks every other noble is involved, but no one talks about it. Maybe they are too smart, even for Goldcrank."

"I see. And does Lor'themar know?"

"Goldcrank isn't sure. And he doesn't know if Farstriding Master knows yet, either."

"I shall inform him myself, though I'm sure an assassination would suit him fine," says Rommath. "Brightwing has never cared for me, as you undoubtedly realise, smart creature you are."

"Maybe he is jealous of Master's good looks."

"Very droll, Goldcrank. That is certainly it—my good looks and my fine riding boots, no?"

"Yes, even Goldcrank covets those."

From across the courtyard he sees the windows of his apartments blazing. He quickens his step as best as he can, glad that no one can see his undoubtedly ridiculous hobbling. He manages to quiet his shivering before reaching the main entrance, steadying himself against his staff.

The mansion is well-lit for their return, a sleepy maid opening the door and allowing the warmth and brightness to spill out.

"A night cap, my Lord?" she asks as they enter, but Rommath shakes his head. "Very well. I shall put out the lights, then."

His journey upstairs feels longer than usual, his good leg protesting against the treatment (his bad leg troubles him consistently regardless of the circumstances). After dispatching with his robes and his staff, he lies on his couch and tries to read a book while Goldcrank hands him cigars. His vision swims, though, and the words blur before his eyes. He can't hold the thread of the argument, the room and his thoughts slipping out of his grasp.

"You may retire, Goldcrank," he says. He feels his weariness falling in around him. A glance at his grandfather clock across the room reveals that it is not as late as he had hoped. He dims the lights with a wave of his hand, but he does not sink back into the pillows. He feels the usual apprehension grip him, as though he is just a child, afraid of the dark and the shapes hiding within it.

"Kasar," he calls. A pause, and then the sound of quick, padding footsteps on the hardwood. Kasar jumps up on the divan beside him, all purrs and cuddles, and wants to get into Rommath's lap, although the cat now weighs more than he does.

With his companion beside him, and knowing he is comparatively safe within his massive and ancient estate, he lies back in bed, trying to brace himself against the pull of sleep.

( )

There are dark shapes that shift and take form at the corners of his vision, the gaping of terrible mouldering mouths, the twitching of tongues wreathed in flame. He is in a swamp, pulling himself out of the sucking marsh, the stink of acid in his nose. And always, always in the distance he can see it, his beautiful shining city, Dalaran (or is it Silvermoon? It changes before his eyes), devoured by flames. Just over the horizon a haze is climbing, grey-green and thick as velvet; he can taste the fel magic, even from this distance. There is a thundering of footsteps that shake the earth, knocking the mortar loose from the distant buildings.

Then the noise starts.

He hears what he always mistakes for the crash of the sea, far and low in the distance, only slowly realising that it is speech. The language is sonorous and ancient. He feels it in his stomach, the nebulous, trembling whispers rising. The sound fills him slowly, expanding upwards, and then it is deafening, the chattering of a billion small birds and the breaking of a thousand windows and the cackling of a million fires.

"No," he calls, but the sound is lost. The wind is fierce and high now. "No," he says again, and he can see the city breaking in the distance, the high walls buckling, the towers leaning.

A cold hand closes around his shoulder. He closes his eyes against what he will see, but the brightness of it shines through anyway. The pure-gold hair, the ivory skin, the regal features.

"My friend, my friend, we must go," Kael'thas is whispering to him, his voice shining in the chaos. His lips are against Rommath's face. "We cannot stay. Let us leave this place."

Rommath tries to shake him off roughly, still struggling to pull himself from the mire, but Kael'thas has a grip of iron. "No, you must come with me. Come now. Now, my friend."

He knows he must get to the city, that if he can just touch it, just brush his fingers along the stone, he can save it, but Kael'thas is dragging him away, his grip unbreakable. "Do not return there. You are not wanted or needed."

He fights back. He makes a kick at Kael'thas, who sidesteps him, and then, desperate, Rommath turns to his nails and teeth, trying to rip small pieces of flesh from the prince's skin. The blow he receives on the side of his head stuns him for a moment, knocking him to the side. "Be _still_," Kael'thas says, and there is ice in his voice, but Rommath knows that his city, his people matter more. Have always mattered more.

Kael'thas pulls him through the swamp again, with Rommath still struggling against him; his nails tear into the earth, pulling up lumps of grass and lichen, but he cannot fight their backwards motion. "Our city!" Rommath screams at him, but Kael'thas cannot hear him over the noise. They are going away, and Rommath can see the last of the walls give way, and then on the horizon there is only dust and emptiness.

The strength drains out of him, and Rommath slumps against an island of dry ground.

"Be still," Kael'thas says again, leaning down towards him. Rommath scrambles back from his outstretched arms, splashing back into the mire, but his prince seizes him in his arms. "Hush. Don't run. Stay here. I need you here. You are my only friend. My heart. And you promised."

Kael'thas' hands swivel towards him again, seizing a clump of Rommath's hair. The gaze on his face is pure knowing, pure heat, and he can do nothing to deflect it; he is utterly visible, and utterly known. Almost utterly known.

When Kael'thas leans forward to pin him down his struggle is half-hearted. He expected this, knew that it would come. He is already overwhelmed by the screaming noise, the dying city, and Kael'thas' cold, steely beauty. They kiss, his mouth wide against Rommath's, and then the tumult becomes unbearable, the sound of urgent whispering tearing through his ears. He tilts his hips towards the boy, and Kael'thas takes a thicker chunk of his hair in hand. They tug at each other's robes, Kael'thas leaning his chest against Rommath's, but his hands are too strong, his arms too powerful, and Rommath feels his skin bruise. He hears the rustle of silk cloth sliding around his shoulders; the prince moves to kiss his neck.

And suddenly, with a rush of understanding, he knows that this creature before him is not Kael'thas, with its too-bright eyes and its wet, expectant mouth. He can feel something headier than fel magic on it, something sinister and forbidding that moves across its skin (and it _is _an it, sexless and barely organic). It is hungry for him, and he is hypnotised by its otherworldly darkness. Rommath's hands are in its hair, soft as expensive fur, and he can feel it in his mind as well as on his skin. Then he feels the searing touch of its bare flesh against his, the line between their bodies blurring into one.

Something within him is trying to break free, to move away from what is happening: the grinding of the noise and his hips and the sound of the collapsing stone walls and the monster breathing against him and within him and his blond hair a fan of gold and the sense of being pinned in place, the aching desire for release, for freedom, to be unstrung—

He wakes up in darkness with sweat and tears on his face.

His breath is coming in jagged gasps, and he feels his room take shape around him, Kasar asleep in the crook of his arm, his staff by his bedside. He is safe—the horror has passed—it passed eight years ago and it can never return again.


	3. II

Disclaimer: The inimitable World of Warcraft and the characters, settings, and languages it contains are the property of Blizzard. I make no claim to them; this fic is not intended for commercial use.

**The Undying**  
Puri Rabbit

II

Dawn comes to the city later with the change in seasons, so Rommath does his work in the dark pre-dawn hours.

He's shaken from his dream. Of course there is no relaxation after such things; just hours spent, staring at the ceiling, both willing and fearing sleep. It isn't that he dreamt of Kael'thas, considering that for months after his betrayal he dreamt of nothing but. It isn't even that he's dreamt about being with another man—such dalliances are not exactly promoted amongst his people, but if they are frowned-upon they are also ever-present.

He feels a chill grip him, although it isn't even cold—if anything his room feels suffocating, too warm. What scares him, if he's being honest with himself, is the fact that the dream came from him, was the product of his mind. That there is such darkness and fear still in him is disquieting; he thought that he has purged all the weakness from him, left no corner of his mind unlit by the light of reason. But now, here he is: every night is a terror, endless corridors that constrict before him in darkness.

Enough. He forces his attention to the pile of letters on his desk. His work seems limitless enough, although he takes pleasure in his discipline, but he can never shake the sensation that it is ultimately meaningless. To what end is all this dashing and confusion? More jockeying for power, more posturing, more silly political games. He used to have a boundless appetite for such things.

The first letter on his desk is a request from Magister Illarion, requesting more funding for what he terms "the betterment of all Silvermoon mages." Such loose phrasing always piques Rommath's suspicion. "Any amount supplied by the ruling council would, of course, be appreciated." And what will the amount go to, Rommath wonders. More robes for Illarion? New furniture for the instructors' rooms? A chandelier for the experiment theatre? The cost in gold is staggering. Rommath scowls. Trust a Magister to forget that they are near bankrupt from the war effort.

"Request denied," he writes in his most exaggerated script.

Then, from Magistrix Lambriesse, ever more complaints about the quality of the students attending the academies. He is tempted to throw it away, but doesn't. The woman is single-minded.

_Surely we, the first spell-casting peoples of this land, can afford to be choosier in whom we admit. Are we so desperate to bolster our ranks that any talentless fool can gain admission to our schools? What about the good name of our institutes? Shall we cast that away too, another sacrifice so eagerly made in the name of the 'greater good'? _

_I recall the process of my own admissions, a procedure I would term, for lack of a better word, gruelling. Now any noble can buy his sons and daughters entry. Why? To what end? Why are we poisoning our pool of talent? Did the Scourge not take enough without us stripping ourselves of dignity as well?_

Rommath winces, raising his head from the paper. Of course she is right, but some truths must not be uttered. Lambriesse has come dangerously close to treason. Only his respect for her (which, he admits, is sizeable but grudging) will keep her in her position, and only then if she learns to watch her tongue.

He responds as curtly as civility will allow:

_We can play this foolish game if you wish, but there is no denying the truth: our blood was in decay ages before the Scourge showed up. Apprentices did not become fools overnight, and they have not become brilliant in the wake of our glorious Sunwell's restoration. To talk as if they ought to have is idle, and ultimately imprudent. We must deal with the problem as it is, and not as we wish it to be._ _Corruption is, and has always been, an issue, but in desperate times we were forced to make do. It shall be dealt with now._

He's only been seated for a quarter of an hour when the sound of the door opening downstairs startles him from his thoughts. He starts and, hating himself for starting, grips his staff then releases it in disgust. The house is locked, and no thief, however bold, would dare the wrath of the Grand Magister. His paranoia is an old man's delusion.

And then a flutter of hope in his chest. There are only a select few people with access to his apartments. Perhaps it is Vranesh, come to apologise at last.

His wish is soon destroyed. "Hello?" a rather slurred voice calls up.

Father Nishil'ever is waiting for him downstairs, and just one look at his flushed, merry face makes Rommath fume.

"Everyone is _asleep_," Nishil'ever wails. Then his eyes seem to focus on Rommath and he grows animated again. "Brother, the party continues here!"

He tries to push past Rommath and into the main hall, but merely trips in his slippers and falls down.

"It's five in the damned _morning_," Rommath says, pulling the priest up by his collar. "No, the party is bloody _over_."

Nishil'ever looks up at him, his eyes glazed and his expression blank, and then, frowning, he pushes Rommath away.

"Honestly, how can you be so _dull_? It beggars belief. I've met corpses that could have a better time."

"Then perhaps you should have your party with them," Rommath says.

Nishil'ever glances up at him. "Why, you're all dressed up!" he says, which Rommath finds baffling because he is merely wearing a black silk bathrobe, his hair hanging around his shoulders. "Are you entertaining?" And then: "Any ladies you can introduce me to?"

He hears the sound of soft padding footsteps down the hall and, glancing over his shoulder, sees his maid.

"My Lord?" she says, although Rommath can't imagine her wanting to deal with the drunk, stinking priest. "Might I help you?"

"Well!" Nishil'ever says. "Look at this gorgeous creature! You old dog, I knew you were cavorting up there! Be a good boy and introduce me."

"This is Miss Shiningriver," Rommath says, keeping his voice clipped. "You have met her, Father. She is my maid. She cooks for me and keeps the house. On Sundays she buys groceries."

"Oh, well," Nishil'ever says, pushing Rommath away yet again. "Pleased to meet you—again—Miss Glowingshiver."

While Nishil'ever is struggling to remove his slippers, Rommath takes the maid aside.

"Take him to the guest bedroom on the other end of house," he says. "Let him sleep there, and for the love of the Light if you know what's good for you stay out of his bed no matter what he tells you."

The maid gives him an affronted look. Her virtue has been offended.

As Rommath turns to ascend the stairs to his studio he can hear Nishil'ever's voice echoing down the long-empty halls: "Oh, a forward type are you? I like an aggressive woman—keeps a man honest!"

( )

No amount of frowning, smoking or pacing can return to Rommath his lost focus. The morning passes in a haze of wasted hours. By the time the sun has risen his hair is wild from all the times he has raked his fingers through it, and he thinks that he would like nothing better than to give his merrymaking friend a smack. A very hard smack. Right between the eyes, perhaps with the sharp edge of a sword.

And, of course, Father Nishil'ever never knocks; it's yet another bad habit that he's come to feel entitled to in his advanced age and position. But Rommath still finds his friend's unannounced visits infuriating.

That is why when Goldcrank sneaks upstairs to tell him that the priest is dressed and waiting to see him Rommath ducks into his study and bolts the door. He can hear Nishil's footsteps across the marble outside his studio, the stately click of his heels echoed by the frenetic clunk of Goldcrank's boots and the goblin's shrill, almost hysterical voice. He can picture the scene: tall and golden Nishil'ever pacing the room as Goldcrank struggles to keep up, offering him a drink, some Bloodthistle, a seat, anything to keep Nishil'ever entertained. But of course, Rommath is the reason for his visit, and he will not be distracted from his target.

He breathes. Nishil'ever is too well-bred to leave without thanking him, and he knows that this is how Rommath likes to spend his mornings: in study, in quiet contemplation, in peace. There's no pretending that he's been called out—who would dare call on him? Besides Nishil'ever, of course.

Rommath opens the door at last. His hair is falling over his face in a way he feels makes him look unkempt. He never goes out in public with it loose, and disapproves of the Regent Lord, who does. He cannot afford the appearance of carelessness, not after the cost his people have paid for it in the past.

Nishil'ever turns to him and smiles slightly, his face and carriage the epitome of composure. Only Rommath would recognise him from the sloppy drunk barely able to walk the night before.

"Ah, dear Rommath," he says, crossing the room in two long strides. "You are here."

As if he would be anywhere else. They clasp hands briefly before Nishil'ever steps past him, into his study.

"Something the matter?" Rommath says. He doesn't mean for the edge to show in his voice, but Nishil'ever doesn't notice anyway, investigating a pocket watch on Rommath's desk instead.

"A pretty trinket," he says. "A gift?"

"I can't recall," says Rommath. "Now. May I help you? Or have you just come to bother me when I should be resuming my studies?"

Nishil'ever shoots him a look of displeasure over his shoulder, and Rommath feels a twinge of guilt. It's just the two of them left over from the old Court now, he reminds himself, and his friend has been getting progressively odder as he gets progressively older and lonelier. There's no one left for him—no one but Rommath, to whom it falls to keep the aging golden boy in line.

Tossing his hair out of his face, Nishil'ever drapes himself over the divan.

"Don't be so unfriendly," he says. "I just wanted to thank you for allowing me to spend the night here. Oh, my wife would have _skinned_ me if I went home drunk like that."

"I'm sure she's equally delighted you've not gone home at all."

"I'm sure she couldn't care less," Nishil'ever says. "Anyway, let's not talk about my family life, such as it is. I'm famished. Could you have your maid fetch us breakfast? Preferably something with lots of boiled eggs."

Rommath obliges, although Nishil'ever looks very disappointed at Goldcrank's subsequent appearance. While they wait to be served, Nishil'ever regales him with tales of additions to his wardrobe and a boating trip that almost Ended In Disaster. ("Allow me to complete the story," Rommath says. "You drank too much and fell over the side, and your servants had to fish you out." Nishil'ever is too cross to respond, instead loudly changing the subject back to his new suede gloves.)

The sun has completely illuminated the room by the time Goldcrank heaves their breakfast up the stairs, and Rommath has already had his fill of Nishil'ever, who is now roundly insisting that Rommath meet his newest tailor. "He's a _genius_," he says. "And he can make anyone look like a gem—yes, you as well! Imagine that!"

Even Goldcrank, who is spreading a napkin across Nishil'ever's lap, raises his eyebrows at this.

"I am perfectly content with my seamstress," Rommath says, "and my robes are more than sufficient, _thank you_. If there was nothing else you wanted to bother me with—"

"Well, actually," Nishil'ever says, examining the contents of his fork, "I _did _want to discuss something. I wanted to talk about your son. You know, dear Vranesh—remember him?"

Rommath grits his teeth. Normally Nishil'ever isn't so quick in getting to the point, instead taking various winding paths to the main issue with what he thinks is subtlety, but lately their discussions have taken on a note of urgency.

"I will invite him back to the estate when he becomes capable of civil speech. In the meantime, tell him he is quite free to continue dragging his knuckles on the ground and running around with his hoodlum friends."

Nishil'ever laughs, his expression brightening with delight. "Brother, you are _cruel_."

"I, cruel? Not at all, Nishil'ever."

"Do you not approve of your own Blood Knights?"

Rommath sighs, and signals for Goldcrank to fetch him a smoke. Preferably a strong one. "They are not mine, and as far as I recall they never were. But I tire of this line of questioning, brother. All right-thinking elves take pride in our Knights, and I am amongst them."

"You're being baffling."

"Evidently all those late nights have dulled your mind, you clever thing."

"Oh, I think you like vexing me," Nishil'ever says, sitting up. He's smiling genuinely now. "Come, don't you agree that it's only natural for a boy and his father to be friends? What do you gain from all this silly fighting?"

"If you think this is about gaining something," says Rommath, "or some petty power struggle, let me disillusion you. Immediately."

"Oh, very well," Nishil'ever says. "I don't want to fight with you—_we _were always friends."

Goldcrank appears, bearing Rommath's pipe on a tray. He picks it up, allowing Goldcrank to hop up on the desk to light it.

Nishil'ever watches the scene with his usual distracted smile. "Well, you look as imperious and radiant as ever, shoddy clothes or no." His gaze moves to Rommath's knee. "And how have you been feeling? Better?"

"In a manner of speaking. Once the pain becomes constant I can simply ignore it." He pauses, considering what he is about to say. "I was hoping you might look at it, actually."

Nishil'ever's smile grows. "Oh no. I never mix business with pleasure."

Rommath makes a noise of scepticism.

"What, you're displeased?"

"I simply don't believe you."

"Priestesses aren't business," he says, examining an apple, "and you aren't either. Don't ask for my medical opinion—you know it's suspect."

"I won't," says Rommath, taking another draw. "But do you think you could examine it, later?"

"Persistent boy," Nishil'ever says. "I'll do no such thing."

Rommath smiles, partly because Nishil'ever is one of the few living elves compared to whom he is young.

"And by the way—that goblin of yours is useless."

"Goblins and elves should not be held to the same standards," says Rommath. "Goldcrank is loyal, if nothing else."

Nishil'ever laughs. He's always laughing, as though everything is a joke that he's playing on Rommath, as though nothing is important enough to be unfunny. "Oh, so you've grown attached to him. Are you lonely, brother?"

"No," Rommath says, and then he silently curses himself, because it's a lie and he knows it.

"Why don't you ever join me at my retreat? It's lovely there. You'd feel better."

"My duties," says Rommath, "keep me in the city. I cannot simply vanish whenever I like. Not everyone has the luxury of disappearing."

Nishil'ever stretches like a cat. "Oh, very well. Your dedication is admirable—I suppose." He regards his friend, a look of sweet indulgence on his face, and outstretches his fingers. "Now come, and let me see that little battle scratch."

Rommath approaches and takes a seat next to him. Nishil'ever is gentle as he pulls back the hem of Rommath's robe, brushing the pads of his fingers over the old wound while watching for Rommath's reaction. When he doesn't show any pain, Nishil'ever clears his throat.

"I am... most surprised."

Rommath twitches an eyebrow. "Surprised? You alarm me, brother."

"Oh, no, do not be alarmed! But, it's just... the scar is fading, have you noticed?" he says. Lowering his eyes, he bites his lip. "The healing has been progressing. And it's _natural_ healing, moreover."

Rommath stares at him, and then catches himself. "That is impossible. You yourself said the same—such wounds don't heal." His voice is gruffer than he intends it to be.

"I know what I said—but Rommath, _look_ at it."

He does, although he doesn't need to, but he will concede nothing. He's accepted that his body is permanently broken, and accepted all the pain and humiliation that go with it. He is flawed in a city of flawless beauty, and he must bear that knowledge to the end of his life. To hope for better, to allow himself to believe that there could be better, will only wound him.

Nishil'ever smiles and, eyes glittering, leans forward. "Alright, you're up to something. What is it?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your leg.

Rommath winces. "Are you not a priest? Examine it and decide for yourself."

"Examine it with what? Don't be absurd. No, Asariel will do it for you, if you're curious."

When Rommath does not respond, Nishil'ever sighs. "You are too proud," he says. "Don't tell me you're at war with him, as well."

"Not war, exactly," says Rommath. "But now I fancy that your reluctance is some sort of ploy to force me to seek him out."

Nishil'ever waves the thought away. "No, that's silly. I know things have been a bit... strained between you two, but surely they haven't grown that bad? You are still speaking, are you not?"

"Speaking, yes. Not much beyond it."

"You are a difficult man."

Undoubtedly. Rommath doesn't even bother to defend himself. "You were missed at the Dawnstriker's."

"Oh!" Nishil'ever sits up, happy to change the subject back to him. "Yes, I suppose I was-Sunfeather also had an outing on _his_ boat, which I couldn't miss owing to our business relations. Why, it was _charming_. And his new wife was there—yes, he's remarried at last—and she is a _dish_."

While Nishil'ever prattles on about who wore what out-of-season robes, Rommath's mind wanders to his scar. A magical cut so deep should not heal, especially not after all this time, and yet he _has_ noticed a change; the edges around it have started to turn from vicious red to silver, a border of grey so small he himself barely noticed it. Lately he has felt the pain diminish as well, although he dismissed it at the time as increased tolerance, or at least better things to worry about. But now he is not so convinced.

"You oughtn't have missed me, though," Nishil'ever is concluding. "I heard you were the toast of the evening. You handsome rascal."

"You heard that, did you? And from what source? A little bird?"

"Oh, no, Fanalen joined us afterwards for a bit of late-night carousing. He said that you were quite impressive, and many ladies asked after you."

"Don't listen to rumours," Rommath says.

"It isn't rumour! Fanalen said that he was hounded for information about the silent and mysterious Grand Magister."

"Matrons, I suppose, trying to get their children appointments."

"Oh, be quiet," Nishil'ever says, rolling his eyes. "Such modesty ill becomes you. I am glad to hear this: it's proof, I suppose, that we old farts have still got it."

It. Rommath feels like pointing out that he never had 'It.'

"And on that topic..." Nishil'ever sits up, his face brightening with mischief. "The young Redfletcher, is it?"

Zaedana Redfletcher. He's been so immersed in night-time misery that he entirely forgot the events of the previous evening's party. Now he remembers her father as well: Baresh Redfletcher, a petty noble with more mouth than money renowned for his immense gambling debts. No wonder he's so keen to have her married off.

"I swear if the people in this city fought like they gossiped, we would have conquered this world and half another by now."

"Well, don't be a little brat about it—it's so unappealing. But tell me, is it true that you're courting her?"

"I spoke to the girl at Dawnstriker's last night. We went for a walk. If that is what counts for courting nowadays, then yes, I suppose am courting her."

"But I heard," Nishil'ever says, "that you gave her your _cloak_."

Oh, this _does_ beat all.

"If you have a point, brother, make it," says Rommath. "I've neither the time nor the interest to pursue silly girls and fend off their outrageous tales."

"Baresh tells a different story."

"Of course _he _does. I was ambushed by the little Redfletcher. I should have seen it coming."

Nishil'ever grins at him. "But was it such an unwelcome ambush? I've noticed her around the city. She's a gorgeous thing, isn't she? I'd never have thought that she could be interested in an old badger like you."

"I'm not such an old badger as you thought, I suppose."

"Or your fancy title and lovely estate more than compensate," Nishil'ever says, pointing an accusing finger at him, as though Rommath has been conspiring to keep all the eligible ladies for himself and Nishil'ever shall be left with none.

Rommath laughs. "Oh, a bolt through my heart. It's nothing to me. Let her enjoy both, if she earns them."

Nishil'ever laughs as well, but quickly sobers. "So you truly do intend to find another companion? Fourth time lucky, is it, old boy?"

"I am not looking for another wife, if that's what you're asking. So no, I will not be pursuing her with any great zeal."

"But if the girl pursues you sweetly enough, you might submit?"

"Precisely."

"Brother, you _lady-killer."_

"Oh, hardly. I've never killed a lady in my life, and that's the honest truth."

"But here you are," Nishil'ever says, grinning, "playing this sweet girl for all she's worth. Keep that attitude, brother, it will drive them wild."

In all honesty, Rommath doesn't want to drive anyone wild. He wants to spend quiet afternoons in his light-bathed office in Sunfury Spire, immersed in his research and in the running of the city, treated with no more respect than his dignity and old age demand. He doesn't want to be trailed by a girl so beautiful that she will constantly bring him unwanted attention, and all the things that go with it: undeserved admiration, envy, hostility. But Nishil'ever, exhibitionist he is, doesn't understand this.

Nishil'ever yawns. "Goodness," he says. "How tired I feel! And the day has barely begun." He rises, stretching. "I shall have to take my leave now. But remember to see Asariel later."

Rommath rises as well, and moves to escort Nishil'ever to the main entrance. "You are always welcome to spend the night here, brother," he says, and as always, he is surprised by how much he means it, how much he would like to pretend that he and Nishil'ever are troublesome boys again, romping around the house and being a bother. Childhood feels an age away—which, he reminds himself, it is.

"You're too kind. But really—if you want to be _truly_ kind, try and talk to Vranesh. Boys need their fathers, brother."

"I make no promises."

"I wasn't asking for any."

At the door, Nishil'ever pulls him into a quick embrace. "It's been a delight, though you might have feigned a bit more interest."

"You know I've a lot on my mind," Rommath whispers.

Nishil'ever pats his arm. "Yes, of course you do." He turns to leave but suddenly turns back, as if remembering something. "I thought I would mention-I was at your family's ossuary and I left some flowers at Vunari's place." He avoids Rommath's gaze. "Perhaps you ought to go there, old friend. Pay your respects."

Rommath doesn't lose his composure; on the contrary, it is in such moments that he shines, the ice that is innate in him closing over his manner entirely. He is cold, and it is in coldness that he lives. "Do not remind me of my duties, Father. I know them too well."

"Yes, I'm aware," Nishil'ever says, his voice low.

Rommath wants to strike him down with a look, to ensure that he retreats back to his place amongst all the decadence and self-indulgence of their class. What does Nishil'ever understand about suffering, or about being a father? Nothing, nothing whatsoever. He watches Nishil'ever saunter away, careless and forgetful. There is a depth of pain that must be lived to be known.

( )

It is early enough still that the normally crowded streets are subdued, as if recovering from night-time celebrations of their own. The great bell tower is ringing seven tolls to mark the hour. Sitting atop his hawkstrider, seeing the city without noticing it, Rommath is glad for the quiet.

The cathedral, once magnificent, has fallen into disrepair: the shining dome is chipped, and its marble steps are darkened with the smudges of thousands of fingers. The mortar of its walls are cracked; Rommath is sure that he sees the shadows of scorch marks in the tile, rubbed out hastily and with little skill.

Once this place was a hub of the city, the hush of contemplation falling over it like a veil. You could go there to pray, to meet, to fall apart. Prior to two years ago it had grown progressively more silent, isolated from the rest of the rebuilt city as though it was an embarrassment that no one wanted to consider. It was not from the Scourge that it gained its shabby appearance; it was their disrespect. The elves learned their Light-worshipping ways from men, but when the shadows came to their land both men and Light were missing.

Still, there is hope now, and he has noticed that with the Sunwell restored, the cathedral has brightened a little, seen a bit more traffic. But nothing compared to before the War.

He ties his hawkstrider in an alley around the corner of the building, stroking her face gently to calm her, pausing to smooth back his hair and compose himself. The side doors, however, are locked, and pounding at them does nothing but get the attention of a curt, young-sounding boy.

"Hello?" he says. "We are closed for the morning prayer."

"I must see Asariel," Rommath says, ignoring his tone.

"_Father_ Asariel is occupied," the boy says. "Come back later."

"I will do no such thing. I am no mere supplicant, and I will not leave until I see him."

Rommath seethes while the boy, sighing, begins to undo the long line of locks on the door. When the apprentice sees who he has been talking to, however, his expression seems to collapse, and he falls into a bow, muttering apologies. Rommath sweeps past him, ignoring his babbling. At one time he'd have reprimanded the boy for his rudeness, but it doesn't matter any longer. He does not rule the city, not in name or reality. He was once fearsome, but personal cruelty isn't required when his reputation does all the hard work. It's just as well. He never took enough pleasure in torture to be any good at it anyway.

The door to Asariel's study is wide open, and Rommath can see his nephew seated at a desk, his head bowed over a book.

"Asariel," he says, and the empty basement seems to amplify his voice.

But Asariel is not scared of him, was never scared of him. When his eyes meet Rommath's, his face does not even stir from its harsh expression. Asariel is identical to his father, Rommath's dead brother: so serious, so tense. But good—as good as they once thought Nishil'ever was. The goodness and the severity make him a boy easy to love and hard to like.

"Uncle," Asariel says, looking up as Rommath enters the room. "I am surprised to find you here so early. Is everything well?"

"Yes, as always. May I sit?"

Asariel makes a movement, as if to suggest that it does not matter, and Rommath does so. His nephew's casual disrespect once bothered him, but now he sees that it is not disrespect, not exactly, but instead a sort of obliviousness to the world and his place in it.

His eyes go to Rommath's forehead. "You are flushed. Is everything alright?"

"Just the heat."

"Do be careful," Asariel says. "We won't have many more warm days like this one, but you mustn't over-exert yourself."

"I'm not dead yet," Rommath says. If Asariel is going to treat him like an ailing relic, he's going to behave like one.

"I can see that. Let's try and keep it that way, no?" He turns back to his papers, tidying a particularly high stack. "What brings you out to my little hovel then?"

"I was speaking to Father Nishil'ever this morning."

Asariel's expression darkens. "I see."

Rommath refuses to be put off his target. "I had him look at my wound. He—and I—have noticed a... a change."

"A change," Asariel says. He doesn't even blink. "And what change might that be?"

"It..." Damn this concern; what's it to him if Asariel thinks him a fool? "It appears to be healing."

"And that is why you are here." Asariel sighs and reaches for a pair of spectacles sitting on his desk. For the first time Rommath notices that his hands look worn, calloused. An old man's hands. "I assume I don't need to tell you why that's unlikely."

"I'm well-versed in magic, I assure you."

"I wasn't implying otherwise," Asariel says, but he sounds more annoyed than sympathetic. "Uncle, with the utmost of respect, are you certain that you are not just imagining things?"

"Even if I were, would Father Nishil'ever be prone to the same imaginings?"

Asariel's lip curls. "Who knows what Nishil'ever thinks?"

"Asariel, enough," Rommath says, and even Asariel is smart enough not to push the issue past this point. "I know your opinions on him well enough by now—by heart, really. So spare me more of your grumblings, and if you won't take my word, why don't you examine it yourself?"

For a moment longer than is comfortable Asariel simply stares at Rommath, his expression inscrutable, as though he is weighing things over in his mind. Then he shakes himself.

"Let me see what I can do," he says, standing and turning towards his cabinet. "I believe I have something to dress it with, as well, to ease the pain a little."

"Your cousin sends his regard," Rommath says, without really knowing why he spoke at all. Asariel says nothing, and his back is to him so that Rommath cannot see his face. When he turns, however, his countenance is still expressionless.

"Surprising, Uncle. Am I to believe that you and Vranesh have made amends?"

"Perhaps you are confused," Rommath says, somehow managing to control his voice. "Vranesh is no son of mine. I was referring to Saremar.

Asariel blinks slowly, his eyes enormous from behind his glasses. "Vranesh shall always be my brother, Uncle. But I am glad to hear that you are still speaking to young Saremar. His father's death still affects him, though he feigns strength."

Rommath feels the anger spread through his stomach. There is no sense in chastising Asariel, though. The words may be insulting, but they are not intended as an insult.

"Here," Asariel says, "I am ready. Now show me."

For the second time that day, Rommath draws his long robes back over his knees. He feels strangely like some sort of fallen girl, showing the priest her legs to woo him into a life of corruption; the comparison makes him snicker, a sound he bites back.

(Has any girl ever shown Asariel her legs? He wonders. He wonders whether, if one were to, it would make a difference, or whether the priest is so lost in righteousness and virtue that even beauty leaves him cold.)

Asariel gently brushes his fingers along the scar, as though feelings the ridges, a secret cartography only he and Rommath know. For a long moment there is no sound but Rommath's breathing and the slow clack of the others priests' heels against the stairs above them. Then Asariel exhales.

"You must forgive my scepticism," he says, his tone subdued now. "Uncle, this is _incredible. _It is a miracle."

"So you agree."

"I can't explain it," Asariel says, jerking his hand away. Rommath covers his knees, almost shyly. "Have you done something new? Are you hiding something?"

His animation startles Rommath. "I do not have anything to hide. I assure you, if I'd known, I'd have told you sooner."

"The Sunwell," Asariel says with a fervency that Rommath has never seen before. "The holy energies of the remade Sunwell. Of course, of _course_. Even being around such a thing would have an effect on your body." He strides across the room to his desk; in his excitement he seems to have practically forgotten Rommath. "Amazing, isn't it?"

"The Sunwell is a miracle, it's true," says Rommath. "But why would it take so long to see a change? The Sunwell has been restored for over two years now."

Asariel immediately quiets. "An excellent question. Why, indeed."

He allows Asariel a moment of silence before clearing his throat. "There is still the matter of the treatment."

With a bit of start, Asariel looks at him, as though he'd been dreaming and Rommath has awoken him. "Oh, yes, of course," he says, picking a leaf off his desk. "Show me again," he says. "It will only hurt a little."

Rommath obeys, and Asariel places the leaf between Rommath's knee and his fingers. Then he feels it, the same as always, the soft warmth of his nephew's fingers like that of a fire on a cold night. The wound stings fiercely for a moment, and then stops. When he touches his knee, the angry redness has faded even more.

"Thank you," he says. Asariel is full of these simple acts, each one small and perfectly beautiful, and so Rommath's thanks confuse him. And perhaps they should. Why be grateful? You might as well be grateful to the rain for falling, or to the sun for shining. It's just in his nature to help.

"You are welcome, Uncle, as always."

The darkness and silence of the cathedral's basement seems to have bled into the outside world. The city sleeps as if it is locked in a dream, as though it has been preserved in amber and, untouched by history or by mortal grief or by years, it has maintained its ageless perfection. Then Rommath turns, and he sees the dust along the sides of the buildings, the cracks in the tiles, and the illusion crumbles. He takes his hawkstrider's harness in hand.

Together they step out into the blazing street; dazzled, Rommath has to shut his eyes against the brightness of the sun.


	4. III

Disclaimer: The inimitable World of Warcraft and the characters, settings, and languages it contains are the property of Blizzard. I make no claim to them; this fic is not intended for commercial use.

**The Undying**  
PurityRabbit

III

Nolcaen has a guest bright and early one fine fall morning: more expected but not more welcome than most.

Quirdas doesn't knock, just eases her way in after checking to see if he's changed the lock yet. Her hair is bright and offensive against the flaking plaster. She always looks like an expensive piece of art, the pride and joy of some noble's house—which, he supposes, she really is.

"Stopped pushing the dresser against the door, have you?" she asks.

"Like that would keep you out," he says, not bothering to pull the blanket away from his mouth. Quirdas crosses the room and does it for him.

"It's already midmorning, _champion_," she says. He doesn't rise to the bait. "Late night, was it?"

"Yes, oh great knower."

She pinches his ear, with more strength than necessary. After all this time she must know that he won't put up much resistance. "Taking out the trash, I hear."

"You hear a lot, Quirdas," Nolcaen says, propping himself up by his elbows. He feels dirty and irritable from being woken up so abruptly after so little sleep, and not at all in the mood for what he knows is coming. "That doesn't mean you should believe all of it."

He feels her hand close around his shoulder, her joints cracking like wood in a fire, and he winces, falling silent. The strength seems to seep out of his arm.

"Much better," she says. "One day you'll learn some hospitality."

He swallows. He can see her sword beneath her cape, snug in its sheath. When he knew her before, in another life, she was the sort of person who fought only with reticence, who shuddered at the idea of spilled blood. Time changes many things. "Oh, is that it? Come over for breakfast? A cup of tea and some muffins?"

She laughs. "It'll be quite the day when one of you lot feed me. I shan't hold my breath."

His lot? Oh, right: the thieves, murderers, and rapists of Silvermoon. That's how Quirdas and her kind view his offense—as no better and no worse than the rest.

"At least let me get up," he says. But the grip on his arm tightens, and he can feel the first pinpricks of heat pressing through his skin into the muscle. It's not like you can don dignity the way you can a robe, anyway.

"No need," she says. "Just lie back and relax, my dear."

He doesn't offer much resistance as her hand guides him backwards. He's learned the lesson well enough by this point: there's not much point in trying to fight her off, unarmed and naked. This is a game he can win, but not by brute strength, and not by losing his head.

"Let's talk," she says. He wriggles a little, testing her hold on him; he finds it strong.

"You first," Nolcaen says. In his peripheral vision he can see his naked sword, tossed across the seat of his armchair. He guesses he can cross the room in a stride and a half, but he isn't sure he can overpower Quirdas. Not while she's focused.

"No," she says, "I really think _you_ ought to go first."

He shuts his eyes. "I suppose you have something in mind, then."

"Last night," she says, "with your little friend."

Oh, yes. Of course.

"Actually," Nolcaen says, "she's nothing of the sort."

The Light doesn't burn quite the same way fire does—it's sharper, like the bite of ice-cold steel on bare skin, but with the flush of blistering heat. Nolcaen manages not to whimper when Quirdas's blazing fingers tap against his chest, just grits his teeth and screws up his eyes.

"And here I thought you were a man of virtue," she says from above him. "A man of virtue who would not tell a lie."

He opens his eyes. He feels tired, drained, like when he's had to run on an empty stomach, and his skin aches dully where she's touched him. Still holding him in place with one hand, Quirdas binds his wrists above his head with the other; he can't see with what. His forearms are forced together, tight over his face.

"I'm not lying," he says. "She showed up. I didn't exactly _invite_ her, Quirdas."

"And you didn't exactly throw her out."

"Easier said than done," Nolcaen says. "You try it, if she ever shows up at _your_ place."

To his surprise, Quirdas doesn't burn him again; she laughs.

"Unlike you, I can keep myself out of trouble. Probably why she knows not to disturb me, don't you agree?"

Nolcaen can think of a few other reasons Quirdas is probably not often bothered by unwanted guests, but he keeps his mouth shut.

"Now," Quirdas continues, slipping out of sight. "Did you have a nice walk? Lots of interesting things up for discussion?"

"Nothing so interesting as you're thinking," he says. "Those days are long over for me."

"Not _long_ over, Nolcaen," she says.

"I've told you this before. All she wants is for me to join her in regaining followers of the Light," he says. "That's it. That's all."

She's silent for a beat. "You know that that's _not_ all, Nolcaen. You know that as well as I do."

He says nothing.

"Tell me, is it that damned girl of hers? Trying to indoctrinate her, or just looking to marry her off?"

"Salandria is a child," Nolcaen says. "This has nothing to do with her."

"Well," Quirdas says, "it doesn't matter anyway. Political organisations are political organisations."

"And political organisations are allowed again," he says. "Some of them."

"Yes—_some_ of them. You know attempted insurgency will not be tolerated."

"It's nothing of the sort."

She snorts. "Oh, fucking _spare _me. I'm not some fat, short-sighted nobleman, talking politics with his harem."

"But I'm not involved in anything like that," he says. "I'm not stupid or rich enough. I'm just trying to survive."

"And I'm just waiting for some answers, Nolcaen." He feels her hand on his chin, dangerously strong. "I'd better find them forthcoming."

"You know it's true. Politics has never been an interest of mine. Actresses and fine wine: those are my interests."

He hears her laugh from somewhere above him, a shimmering sound. She withdraws her hand. "Yes, I'm aware."

He exhales.

"But you did leave us, Nolcaen," she says. "You left all the glory of your life behind—and for what? To live here?" He feels her kick the legs of his bed, her boot thudding against the wrought iron, and then she steps away again, towards his desk and his papers. "Excuse me," she says. "Since you're being so unhelpful, I'll have to look around myself."

"Did Vranesh send you?"

"Vranesh?" A pause, and he can tell she is thinking, mulling over her words. Her voice does indeed come from across the room. "Vranesh is curious about you, as we all are."

Cautiously, slowly, he folds his fingers are far down his palms as he can, trying to feel the bindings. There they are, only cloth, probably just a hair ribbon. He tests them, gently, and then a little more firmly.

"Curious about me," he says. "Why is he curious?"

"Oh," Quirdas says, almost conversationally, "you understand why. You left so suddenly, without a word. And then we were worried about Liadrin's men—never mind, you've no business knowing this."

He knows a little. He knows something happened with Liadrin, with 'her men.' He knows that there were suspicions; he knows that he was amongst those who were considered collaborators. But collaborators in what? Some sort of rebellion? He has no idea, and Quirdas says nothing further.

He rolls his wrists a little, feeling the cloth around them. Judging by the way it shifts, she seems to have bound it between them in a sort of figure eight—looping it behind the carved dragon's head on the wall, no doubt. The silence in the room is complete. Vaguely, he wonders what she's found, what piece of evidence that will damn him forever. He inches backwards on the divan, moving his hips closer to the wall. If he can just get some slack on the cloth—just a little closer, a little more—

The blow Quirdas gives him surprises him completely, catching him in the lower jaw and sending his face hard against his arm.

"That was stupid," she says. "Civilian life has made you a fool, Nolcaen."

His ears are ringing, and the entire left side of his face is stinging and numb at once.

"If you try that again, I will run you through. Understood?"

Not trusting himself to speak, he stays quiet.

"The eyes of our people are always open, Nolcaen," Quirdas says. He can't see her, although he can feel the floorboards creaking as she moves away from him again and around the room—rifling through his drawers with redoubled effort, no doubt. "They see all. They cannot be deceived. And the agents of the Council are ever watchful."

He inhales, tasting blood. "Is that who made you do this?"

"As a matter of _fact_," she says, her voice becoming smooth with anger, "I am quite capable of my own choices."

"And what a good girl you are, then. Let me guess," Nolcaen says. "Vranesh is going to become king, and you'll be the royal consort. Or the royal concubine."

It's not clear where the pain starts, but it finds its way to his head almost immediately, tracing his nerves like bars of burning iron closing over his skin. His back arches and he can hear, faintly, the old wooden dragon head ornament creak as he contracts against it, trying to curl up, away from the terrible unnatural fire. He feels the flesh on his thigh sear and then blister.

She relaxes her hand. "If you ever speak of the crown again," she says, "I will kill you. I promise, on the bones of my father and my mother, you will die for your insolence."

Nolcaen says nothing. He's struggling to breathe through the smell of burning skin. His skin.

"And don't be so _fucking_ coarse," she says.

He manages to force out a small, compliant whimper. Beside him, Quirdas paces, fretting and seething. And then he realises: his arms are looser over his face. In his paroxysms of pain, he pulled the cords free. Or the dragon head from the wall. Whichever.

Quirdas doesn't seem to notice. "I don't care how long ago your name was cleared, or who did it. I knew the moment I saw you—I don't like you, Nolcaen. You're as low and conniving as a snake, and no one should trust you. I saw your name on the list of suspected anti-monarchists after the Grand Magister returned. 'He is trouble,' I said to Lord Bloodsworn, but there was only silence—what a reward for my diligence! But there are always loyalists, and there are always whispers."

Nolcaen can feel his bindings against his palms, loose and sweat-slicked. And definitely slacker.

"I was right though, wasn't I?" Nolcaen says. "I was right about the monarchy. Inbred tyrants."

The sound of her footsteps pauses. For a moment there is no sound but their laboured breathing—he trying to catch his breath, she trying to control her rage.

"Tyrants?" she says, softly. "Anasterian Sunstrider fell, defending us, defending our homeland. I felt the loss before I knew. I thought we could lose nothing more, that the sun itself had gone out."

He can see her move towards him, slowly, like a sleepwalker navigating a tight passage. He flexes the muscles of his arms, testing them.

"Maybe he should have tried harder," Nolcaen says. "The apple never falls far from the tree. You were there when the traitor-prince died. Is it true what they say? Did he really weep like a child?"

He can see her place her hand on the hilt of her sword, still in its scabbard. He can see her hand, shaking.

"No more nonsense," she says. "We've put up with too much from you already. I was right about you—you've not a loyal bone in your body."

"Kill me, then," he says. She doesn't move. He knows that she is remembering their old friendship, their days together as Knights when they were both still heroes. And he knows that, under that, Quirdas is wondering whether this is a trap.

"Your time is up, Nolcaen," she says. "Perhaps dying in Northrend would have been the better thing for you."

Nolcaen shuts his eyes, and for a moment he is back there, back amongst the snow so cold it burned and the mournful wails, the long hours spent in that waste as he lay dying, expecting death, wishing to be delivered from the agony. _You were spared for a reason_, Liadrin said more than once. But now he knows that all talk of reasons is foolish, that there is no order, no sense, no final goal. Just the endless progression of facts, one scene flitting past another so fast that no mortal mind can keep up with it. Yes: perhaps it would, truly, have been the better thing.

Then he snaps himself out of it and he pulls, with the last reserve of energy he's kept Light-knows-where, hard against his bindings. The dragon's head gives way in shower of plaster, a chalky eruption that covers them both, and he swings it down and to the left, towards her. Quirdas jerks herself backwards, raising her arm to protect her face, but the blow connects with her shoulder, knocking her off balance.

Nolcaen leaps over the end of the divan, tossing his bindings off his wrist, throwing himself towards the armchair, towards his sword. He hears the cry of metal against metal, Quirdas unsheathing her blade behind him. In all fairness, he hasn't touched his sword in months save for in sporting fencing matches with older noblemen at the Pavilion. But as soon as his hand closes around the hilt, it's as though nothing has changed, as though he is a Blood Knight again, brave and noble and adored. It's in his hands, shining and bare, and he's spinning around to face her, slashing in a tight arc across her face. The clean red line that blooms, stretching from her cheek, across her left eye, to her forehead, is gratifying. She cries out in surprise, and thrusts blindly at him; he parries her easily and presses the tip to her throat.

"Drop it," he says.

She obeys him, but not before giving him a look of pure hatred with her remaining eye.

"Kick it over."

She does, watching him the entire time.

"Your turn," he says. "Time to talk."

Her white cheek is open; when she tenses her jaw in helpless anger, he can see the ripple of bare muscle.

"Who has been informing on me?"

"Many people," she says. He presses the sword against her throat. "The entertaining-girls. Your landlord."

"Sasidian?" he says. "Why would he—"

"You've been associating with Liadrin," she says. "That is cause enough for many."

"She's been associating with me," he says, although it doesn't matter. "What of it? What's it to you?"

She swallows hard, the ruin of her eyelid fluttering blindly. "There have been suspicions. Amongst the ruling council."

"Still under suspicion, am I?"

It's a credit to her that she looks uncomfortable. "We're all under suspicion Nolcaen. Even I."

He laughs. "So much for peace."

"So much for peace," she echoes. Her voice is distant. "I dreamed that one day the Sun King would return. Things would be as they were... before."

His grip tightens on the sword. It's a mistake to think of Quirdas as anything besides a trained killer—a lesson he's made on more than one occasion—and if she thinks the fact that he once called her 'friend' is going to save her, she's wrong. As if to remind him, his inner thigh is throbbing from where she touched him. But his sword is in his hands again, and Quirdas is at his mercy. He presses the point against her throat, just enough to scratch the skin.

"You may menace me all you want," she says, "but I would like to know what you intend to do with me. Killing me will only hasten your arrest."

"Go ahead, Quirdas," he says, "bargain for your life. I'm an indulgent gentleman, whatever you've been told."

"Self-indulgent, more like," she spits, but he can see her eye darting around the room. Looking for an escape, no doubt. Or, even now, a weapon.

"No answer, then?" he says.

She has an answer; his letter opener is on the desk to his right. She jumps for it, and Nolcaen is momentarily taken aback, surprised even when she grabs it and lunges directly at his exposed midriff. He steps away a second too slowly and winces as he feels the pressure of the blade, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to hurt. She raises the blade again, and he brings his sword across her wrist, a sharp, high slash.

She doesn't scream precisely, which he respects, even when her severed hand lands with a soft thump. She's debilitated now, but he isn't thinking that; he's thinking about her good hand and her midnight visits and how much she knows and doesn't know. He leans into his thrust, and the sword slices through her flimsy ornamental armour, through her midsection; he feels the skin resist slightly and then give way, like rubber puncturing. She doesn't make a sound; her eyes lock his, and he sees for the first time a pure disbelief, a pure terror.

He withdraws his sword. Quirdas collapses, sighing, dragging a smear of blood across the walls behind her.

His sword hits the carpet. Not this again: killing without thinking, without even knowing you're doing it. "I didn't mean to—" he begins, but he did mean to, meant to do it the moment she first walked in like a bad memory, all those months ago. Quirdas. He slumps, sitting down heavily across from her, watching her gasp for air as if she is drowning. He never really knew her, although they were once partners. She doesn't look at him until he crawls over and wipes the blood from her face, gently enough that it surprises even him. She stares up at him. Her expression is wild, uncomprehending. She opens her mouth to speak, red froth dribbling over her lips, and lets out a whimper halfway between a sigh and a groan.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Your king awaits you," he says, although he isn't sure why. He doesn't love Quirdas; he doesn't love the dead traitor-prince. And when Quirdas looks up at him once more, the intelligence in her eyes flickering out, he's certain that he's never loved anything in his life.

( )

First there were letters. They started slowly enough, with just a single, casually penned note in Liadrin's hand. He threw it out without reading it, and didn't think of her again for months.

After he received the second letter and again, but a bit more deliberately this time, disposed of it, the real deluge began. Letters slipped under his door at dawn by the maid, letters with his mid-morning tea, letters waiting for him at the bank, at the gymnasium, even at his favourite brothel.

(His pocketbook shrank rapidly in those days. His meteoric rise was finally being matched by an equally spectacular, and very public, fall.)

The destruction followed him wherever he went. Pieces of shredded paper hung to the edges of his one good robe, a fact facilitated by its increasingly frayed ends. His fingers were torn from where he had ripped apart her notes in a rage; refusing to wear bandages, his clothes were often spotted with blood.

(When he couldn't afford to see his favourite mistress anymore, he simply starting fucking the maid. He supposed that this was what poverty felt like: making do with what one had.)

He never read a single message she sent him. There was no need. When you live and argue and fight with someone you come to know them in a way that love and friendship never allow. What Nolcaen knew about Liadrin was what he had learnt at the tip of her sword. She had a fine mind, a strong arm, and a keen sense of justice. And only one of those things could possibly be relevant to him.

(He ran out of money and stopped paying the servants. The letters built up at his front door.)

And yet they still came. Addressed to _Champion Nolcaen_, or, _Honourable Blood Knight_, or when, he supposed, she was feeling really desperate, _My dear old friend_.

(Dear old friend. Funny how time changes one's memories. Liadrin had never cared for him before, never had time for him or his "swagger" as she called it, and now here she was, sending him enough missives to tire out a love-sick schoolboy.)

So when she showed up the first time, while he was still living in his sprawling, though increasingly empty (the debtors had come and taken most of the art and furniture) apartments, he was displeased but not, precisely, surprised.

After that, whenever he heard the sound of hard, sharp knuckles against his door he winced and flared up at the same time, loathing her and daring her. He didn't answer unless he knew who it was, didn't walk alone in the street, didn't leave his rooms very often at all.

When he was evicted by the owner of the townhouse in which he lived he moved into a seedier part of Silvermoon, downhill from the scrubbed shine of the noble residences. Partly he was relieved: now his life as he had lived it was over. There would be no going back. And moreover, it was the last place in the city he'd have expected her to find him—mainly, of course, because it was the last place he expected to be.

( )

The previous night's crime that had warranted Quirdas's appearance: collaboration with the extreme elements of society.

He could not make out the woman's shape in the darkness of the street below, but he knew who she was from the moment he heard her footsteps against the tiles outside his apartment.

It was late enough that he had already blown out the candles in his bedroom, late enough that he was lying down on his divan, though nowhere near tired. In the next room he could hear his cat's soft, bubbling breaths, and he wished that she would climb up beside him so he could bury his face in her coat and fall asleep like that, like a child clutching a favourite toy. Safe and unafraid.

But then, in the still hours just after midnight, there was no mistaking it—the crunch of heavy boots, shortly followed by a knock at the door. The same knock that had woken him from his sleep at such odd hours for years.

He shut his eyes. _Go away_, he though to her. _Go away. Find someone else to bother._

There was a short silence, and then another knock, this time louder. With a grunt, he pushed himself up, reaching through the darkness for his dressing gown. He did not wave his hand to illuminate the small space; he did not need to. And partly—though he hated himself for this pointless vanity—he did not want her to see the shabbiness of it, the peeling wallpaper and the frayed curtains.

It was dark, and she wore a helm, but he knew her. There she was, back again, as unwelcome and unapologetic as ever, almost exactly as he remembered her, though a shade shorter, a little plumper, her posture just a touch more bent.

"Champion Nolcaen," she said.

Even after all this time, his body responded to the title before he could react. His bow was as magnificent as though the years that had passed had never happened, had been only some dream that has dissipated on waking. "Most reverend lady. You honour me."

Liadrin removed her helm, shaking her hair loose with a grace that was a little too calculated to be taken seriously. She was still beautiful enough to surprise him, though her face had a tinge of tiredness to it that had not been there before, and the lines around her eyes were deeper than he'd ever seen them.

They faced each other in silence for a moment, and he could tell that she was just as off balance as he was, just as wary and unsure. It was a reminder of everything that had changed, everything they'd lost, and it made him blaze with pointless irritation.

"I would like to go for a walk," she said.

Nolcaen let out a single, sharp laugh. "I'm not exactly dressed for it."

She simply stared at him, her eyes guarded. "Then get dressed."

Although he ground his teeth the entire time, rummaging around in the dark for his leather under-robes and battered breastplate, Nolcaen obeyed. Some things never change.

Outside, the air was heavy with cold and the dampness of high autumn. They walked in silence for a few moments, measuring their steps carefully, as if tiptoeing. Silvermoon was, at long last, asleep. Nothing seemed to move; even the stray cats peered out from corners at them cautiously before vanishing back into the shadows. It was as if the entire city was bracing itself. The collective intake before the plunge into—what? Nolcaen didn't know. He didn't know much anymore.

"I have missed the city," she said at length. "It is beautiful this time of year." She glanced at him, almost shyly, as though the compliment were for him alone. "It is beautiful always, really."

"You look well," he said, as snottily as he dared.

If his deflection surprised her, she offered no sign of it. "My time near the Sunwell, perhaps. It does a soul good, Nolcaen."

"Yes," he said, both hoping and fearing that his disapproval showed, "I heard what you've been doing there. Proselytising."

If he needed any evidence that she had changed, he needed none when she did not reprimand him; she did not even raise her voice. "Our people deserve to know, Nolcaen. They deserve to know what we did, and they deserve a second chance. We all do."

He did not look at her. So he was right: it was this again. He might have guessed.

"Things have changed," she said, and he knew that she was thinking of that damned... _creature_, knew that she was turning over her memories as though she were tilling dry, barren soil in which she knew nothing could grow.

He said nothing.

"Things have changed," she said again, a little more forcibly. "There is an enormous opportunity here, don't you see?"

"No, I don't see," he said. They were leaving the somewhat shabby market district, passing under the soaring archway and heading uphill to the more affluent areas of the city. Nolcaen drew his cloak tighter around himself.

"We can't forget what happened, Nolcaen," she said. Her tone of gentle patience infuriated him; he wanted to strike her. "We can't simply let our shame overcome us. We have a... a _moral_ obligation to see things right."

"Maybe you should tell that to Vranesh," he said before he could stop himself.

"What of him?" she said, her voice gaining a sudden edge. "He serves as well as his youth allows. Thank your stars Lord Bloodsworn didn't succeed in his bid for the leadership."

"Vranesh is no better."

"He is a good sight better," Liadrin said. "He's not a war criminal, to begin with."

"That depends on your definition of the phrase."

She ducked her head. "That talk is uncalled-for. I know Knight-Lord Vranesh may seem a hard man to you, but he is—"

"Seem a hard man? Have you heard what they're saying about him? He scalped a whore in broad daylight and no one did anything. 'Seeming a hard man' is to put it mildly. I'd say he seems like a horror."

"Nolcaen, you know there's nothing I can do about Vranesh as it is." He thought he could hear the frustration in her voice. "I have no titles, not for the time-being, and Vranesh is a Lordling and a son of House Morningstorm— and even if he weren't the acting Patriarch, he has a friend in the Shiningray heir."

"He is still a Blood Knight."

"He is untouchable at the moment," Liadrin said, in a voice that brooked no contradiction. "I have no love for Vranesh, and when I return, he will be dealt with—and he will find no favours from me."

_If_ you return, Nolcaen corrected silently.

"But we have larger issues to deal with than noble squabbles. There is no question. The people must have justice. The Blood Knights must answer for what we have done."

He inhaled. "Maybe it's time you let us move on."

"Come back, Nolcaen," she said, as if he'd never spoken. "We need you."

"No."

She blinked, although she shouldn't have been surprised after all this time, and the fact that she clearly was made him hate her more.

"Absolutely not. I've told you—never again. I want nothing more to do with you. With any of you."

Was that a shadow of pain across her face? No. Impossible. All her pain was reserved for herself, for her stupid narcissistic regrets and memories, the sealed world in which she moved. He had no time for it, for the self-indulgence of guilt. It achieved nothing and never had.

"I'm paying my dues," he said. He stopped. They were standing in front of an impossibly ornate marble fountain. Liadrin's family had lived near here once. She could return to her childhood home, to its rebuilt glory and its shining facades; she could fall apart there, privately, in the arms of her own people and their history. But for Nolcaen that was gone, irretrievably and forever.

"Let's do right," she said. "Nolcaen, we've done so much wrong—"

"We?" He turned to her, feeling his chest tighten. "We? No, there was no 'we'. You were in charge from beginning to end. You knew, better than any of us, what was happening. I did the best I could."

"As did I," she said, her mouth hardening into a firm line. "As did we all." She reached out, gripping his arm with a strength that he had forgotten. "But that wasn't enough. Wanting is not enough. Only through acting can we be redeemed."

He pulled himself out of her grip, turning away. He had to be away from this place, away from her and her idiotic, flawed justice. After so much time spent tearing himself free from the horror of it, the grief and the agony, he couldn't be dragged back. Don't you see, he wanted to say. There is no undoing what we've done. All we can do is live.

"Don't go," she called after him, but Nolcaen did not turn around. If she wanted to follow him, so be it. She did not.

He walked the distance to his apartment in silence, feeling the city around him, deep and unthinking and hostile; the ears in the alleys, the eyes at the windows. Silvermoon, his Silvermoon, waiting for him to slip up; waiting to pounce.


	5. IV

Disclaimer: The inimitable World of Warcraft and the characters, settings, and languages it contains are the property of Blizzard. I make no claim to them; this fic is not intended for commercial use.

**The Undying **  
PurityRabbit

IV

Silene had been trying to avoid meeting Kani ever since she'd heard that the orc's mating party would be going ahead in spite of everything, so of course they quite literally bumped into each other in Orgrimmar.

It isn't that she doesn't like Kani—well, not _really _—it's just that she doesn't feel like being another pity-guest, spoiling everyone's enjoyment. Which she hates witnessing, anyway: she hasn't had a good time in years.

Kani is about the same height as most of the males of her race, with shoulders and hips as wide as an ox-cart and enormous, if well-manicured, hands. She's difficult to miss, even in a crowd, because she stands head and shoulders above everyone around her. But Silene is rarely in Orgrimmar, and she has to spend all of her attention trying to find her way through the city. She had been distracted—she had dropped her coin bag at the bank—and when she stood, she smacked the top of her head off of Kani's iron plate gauntlets.

"Silene," Kani said from above, "what good fortune to run into you!"

"Good to see you too," said Silene, trying discreetly to feel if her skull was cracked.

"How is my sister doing?" she asked, her usually merry face sombre. "It's not bad news, is it?"

"No updates. But as they say: no news is good news in such matters," Silene had said. It was only a half-lie—better than usual.

Kani smiled, a little sadly. Silene was toast after a smile like that: it pulled at the small, dying part of her that still cared. "Such small mercies cannot be taken for granted. Have you heard _my_ news?"

Oh no, thought Silene. Now she's going to invite me to some damned orc party. "News?"

"It is my mating," Kani said. "I was hoping that Yobiake would be awake for it... but it cannot be delayed any further. It's an important occasion, so it calls for some celebrating."

Silene never wants to celebrate. In life she was about as much fun as a fall from Thunder Bluff, and death hasn't made her any livelier. She looked at her feet. "What did you have in mind?"

"A hunting party," Kani said. "Myself and Kaghzash, leading the hunt with our dearest friends through Durotar. It would be diverting, don't you think?"

Actually, Silene thought nothing of the sort. A hunting party sounded at once dangerous and boring, a rare and fatal combination. But she couldn't say no—she was, after all, the one who brought Kani the message a week ago that her younger sister Yobiake was unconscious after an attack in Alterac Valley. She had showed up, uninvited and perhaps unwelcome, shuffling her feet with the bad news. The orc had left Silene crouching in their low-ceilinged abode for a minute, clearly overwhelmed with emotion. Yobiake, her only surviving full-blooded sibling. Yobiake, who had not yet awoken and who, her caretakers feared, never would. Yobiake, who would not be there. And even though it wasn't Silene's fault, even though she was the medic who had _saved_ the stupid girl, she still felt a muted echo of guilt.

"It's a date," Silene had said. Kani had rewarded her for her sacrifice with a playful cuff to the shoulder that put Silene on her ass.

Kani and Silene go way back, and the orc is admirable, she supposes: talented, brave, knowledgeable. The two women have fought together, Silene's spells flashing while Kani's war axes flash in arcs before her. Silene has saved Kani from a scalping or two, and Kani helps Silene out of the snow when it congeals around her feet from blood and entrails. She never liked orcs exactly, and orcs never liked her. But Kani was obviously afraid she would offend Doctor Silene by not inviting her, and Silene was afraid she would offend Kani by not going. The respect and dislike the two feel for each other has locked them into one uncomfortable situation after another.

And then there is the entire reason Silene has abandoned her station in Undercity to be hanging around Orgrimmar, sleeping in an inn where even the maids turn up their noses at her and wasting her gold on gin rummy; the one thing Kani has that Silene desperately needs and hasn't had for ages: access to Zabha the Magnificent Mage-Whore.

And orcs are so touchy.

But actually, now that she's here, the hunting party isn't so bad. Kani has made a considerable fortune as an adventurer, trading rare ore and equipment with a business savvy that Silene finds frankly surprising in an orc. Silene gets to sit in the shade of the massive tent pitched in the wild emptiness of Durotar and think of mean things to say about the other guests, all while enjoying a glass of water. Kani is content and Silene is scanning the crowds for any sign of her target. It's a good compromise.

She doesn't join the hunting party. They are out in the sun at the peak of the day; Silene sees mirage-water glimmering at the horizon. It is too hot for any civilised beings to be moving, and so the orcs find it the perfect time to be engaging in dangerous entertainment. Instead, she draws in the dirt with a stick, and she watches the birds move across the horizon, and she notices a crocolisk sunning itself lazily in the distance. They are gone for a few hours, but she never gets bored. She's infinitely patient now. And why not? What's the rush? It's not like she has anywhere to go, not even to the grave.

Then they arrive in a bustle of blowing horns and chanting. They have made more than one kill—a good hunt, she gathers, which bodes well for the partnership. Kani is dressed in a barely decent robe of red feathers, gold rings hanging from her nose and ears. Her face is adorned with brown paint, drawn in concentric circles around her eyes and across her forehead. Over her back is slung the carcass of a zhevra, and the blood congeals in the dirt. Silene supposes that today Kani must be the height of orcish beauty.

"Oy, Zabha," Kani yells from somewhere in front of her, her voice muffled by the stagnant air inside the tent. "Come sit yourself near me, sister. The seat of honour!"

When she sees the troll weaving her way through the crowd in her peripheral vision, Silene sloshes water down her front. It's only when she turns to look at her directly that Silene realises, with some disappointment, that Zabha hasn't even glanced in her direction. But the day is young. And time is something they have plenty of.

( )

The hour after the hunt is finished is spent preparing the game that Kani, her mate, and a few of their more talented guests have caught. On the menu is roast boar, its skin crisped over an open fire, a stew of crocolisk and sweet potato, and zhevra wrapped in clay and baked until tender. Silene doesn't eat food nowadays, but even she glances twice at the fabulous spread.

Instead she spends her time trailing Zabha. Not that it's hard. The first thing she sees, as always, is the high shock of silver hair, and only then towering six-and-a-half foot troll sporting it. Silene has heard the whispers, the rumours that buzz around her like flies. Zabha the Magnificent they called her once, though not kindly: she had a swagger you could see from Outland. Zabha the Mage-Whore she is called now. The public is fickle, but Zabha has not changed much. She looks magnificent as always, though she is wearing far fewer jewels than usual and Silene doesn't miss the way the hem of her sarong is frayed, nor the plain steel anklet that marks her as a servant of the Steamwheedle Cartel. Still, when she turns around for a second even Silene, who hasn't a sentimental bone in her body, just admires her former friend's beauty. Then she remembers why she came in the first place.

"Zabha!" she calls over the crowd.

The troll looks out over the sea of heads and the haze of the cooking fires, but when she sees who's calling her she turns away abruptly, hurrying in the opposite direction. Trying to disappear into the swarming masses, no doubt. It's futile. Her hair is like a beacon, and Silene follows it, weaving through the assembled orcs before bursting into a circle of six troll women, all similarly beautiful, all similarly branded. They all glare down at her as one, all except for Zabha, who looks pointedly away. No doubt she has told them all about Silene.

"Zabha, please, at least speak to me."

"I got no business wit ya, and I suggest ya move ya backside somewhere else," Zabha says. She won't even glance at her. One of her troll friends says something in Zandali, and they all burst out laughing, Zabha hardest of all.

"Is that any way to greet a friend?" Silene says.

Zabha looks at her now, her expression one of utter disgust. She sniffs at Silene, her small nose wrinkling. "I remember da days when I call you friend, an' we was all secrets an' partners. An' den when I fall, you is nowhere, wit no money—you _says_." Her voice turns to venom. "An' all di while you be smokin' you cigars an' sittin' 'pon you fine lords' cushions."

"_Light_, Zabby, what do you think I do all day?" Silene says. "You think this has been a party? Do I look like I'm having fun? I'm destitute, I swear, and I've been on the run since the Wrathgate. I can't find work anywhere."

"I like ya _gloves_," Zabha says. Silene looks down, and swears. She is wearing her best gloves, the soft supple silk ones. Why does she dress like this, anyway? Light, she can't even_ feel_.

"Oh, Zabby," she begins, but Zabha isn't listening to any more. She gathers her voluminous sarong.

"Ya a cheat an' a liah, Silene, an' ya always was. I ain't gonna fall for it, no mi. Beg all ya like." She struts away, the other trollish beauties following her like a wedding train. Silene simply stands there, seething at her own stupidity and Zabha's idiotic pride.

They sit on opposite ends of the table for lunch; Zabha is given a seat of honour near Kani and her brothers, while Silene is consigned to sit with the goblin tinkerers and a mournful looking elf missing an ear. Silene doesn't eat—food sits on her palate like dust—and she notices that Zabha doesn't either.

So Silene does what she always does when things aren't going her way: she tries to get drunk.

Only tries, because another thing she's discovered about undeath: things don't react with her body the way they used to. Alcohol is a pretty good example. Silene can't remember much of her old life, but from the things she's gathered, and the things her patron has shown her, she was severe, humourless, and never, ever drunk. So it figures that now, when she really needs a pick-me-up, nothing will do it.

Well. Not _nothing_.

"Fancy a game of Bloody Aces?" she asks the goblin to her right.

He downs his drink in a single gulp. "Does a night elf shit in a hollowed-out tree?"

Silene considers this important philosophical matter for a moment. "Does he?"

"_Yes_," the goblin says, and two of his companions exchange high fives.

Bloody Aces is actually not usually_ Bloody _Aces amongst the civilised peoples of Azeroth, but in her travels Silene has picked up the goblin version of the game and found that she much prefers it. Goblins like it because it incorporates cheating into the rules. Silene likes it because it is violent. And goblins are great for these things, because they gamble like gambling is going out of fashion, which means that the game can develop into an out and out brawl in short order. Fun for everyone involved.

"Another round of Dos Ogris for my friends and I!" Silene says to a server, and the goblins cheer. The one to her right knuckles her rather roughly on the shoulder. But it's nothing to her—just as long as she's in another city by the time Kani gets the bill.

The first round goes smoothly, with no one getting caught lying. A disappointing start. But it isn't long before Jammi, the goblin she spoke to first, is caught fibbing about his hand.

"Bloody Aces!" one of his friends, named Ghazern, screams, and punches him in the face. Jammi is forced to drink a penalty shot through a nosebleed while Ghazern helps himself to a small pile of silver.

The game continues through the first, second, and third courses. Half-way through a rich soup of squash and saffron, when Silene is entering the double-digits mark of drinks consumed, a shadow falls over their party. The goblins fall suddenly silent.

"I hope you have not spent all your gold, Silene," Kani says. "You'll need to repay me for the cask of Dos Ogris you lot guzzled."

She glances over her shoulder. Kani is standing behind her, grinning, and to her right is Zabha. She is grinning as well, but not nicely.

"Bloody aces!" the goblins cry in unison from behind her. Silene turns, and curses. In her distraction she's showed her hand—and revealed that she'd been lying through her teeth.

After allowing the goblins to give the obligatory punches ("Da rules are da rules," Zabha says. "Only fair, mon,") Silene rises somewhat unsteadily, leaning against one of the poles of the tent for support. She must be drunker than she feels, because she misjudges and stumbles, nearly toppling into one of Kani's more ancient relatives.

"Careful, kid," one of the goblins says.

"No worries," Kani says, picking her up by the back of her neck. The goblins howl with laughter. Silene is glad that her pride died with her—and unlike her, never seems to rise from the grave. "Let's go for a walk."

Silene, not having much choice, consents to being carried bodily from under the shade of the tent. The heat is blistering, even with the shadows lengthening, and Silene screws up her eyes against the light.

"You upset Zabha," Kani says pleasantly, still holding Silene. "She couldn't eat any of the wedding feast. Apologise."

"I didn't do anything wrong," Silene says, but when she sees the look on Kani's face she falls silent.

"My sister could not be here today," Kani says, but she doesn't sound sad—she sounds angry. "My _blood_ sister. Zabha is my sister by choice, and my most honoured guest. She went to enormous trouble to be able to attend." She gives Silene a shake. "_Apologise_."

"Sorry," Silene says, though it's hard to say anything at all with Kani's iron grip on her neck.

Zabha huffs."I s'pose dat's sometin'."

Kani drops her and slaps her on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of her. No blushing violet, this. Silene spares a moment of pity for Kaghzash. "Good woman. I told you she'd cooperate, Zabby." Kani turns back to Silene. "If you disrespect my sister again, we will repeat this until you learn your lesson. Are we clear?"

"Perfectly," Silene says. Her neck is throbbing, and if blood still flowed in her veins, she's certain she'd be bruising right now.

"Sort this out," Kani says, and stalks back to the tent.

Zabha gives Silene a look of utmost contempt, with enough loathing to make even her black heart ache, and turns away as well.

"Zabha, _look_," Silene says, grabbing her arm.

It's a mistake. Zabha turns back, her red eyes flashing rage, and Silene releases her, but it's too late. Her staff makes contact with Silene's head in exactly the same place Kani's fletcher did, the crack echoing in her ears like the sound of a whip. She sits heavily on the ground, dazed, watching the colours swirl in her peripheral vision.

She is dimly aware of Zabha fussing. "Oh mi loas, mi loas, oh loas—Silene, girl, ya _okay_? Yes, ya okay, ya okay. Just git up, now."

She consents to being helped to her feet, and even allows Zabha to brush the dust off of her robes.

"Another hit like that," she manages to say, "and it'll be _my_ brains on the menu."

"Hardly," Zabha says. "Ya _got_ none."

The laugh escapes from Silene before she can help it, and before she knows it Zabha is giggling too, her hand placed over her mouth as she laughs in a terribly becoming way. No doubt something she picked up in her new career path.

When they are done snickering, they move inside to sit on a dusty rug by one of the cooking pits, Zabha leading her with her three fingers placed gingerly on Silene's arm to minimise contact. They are a strange pair, and they get more than a few looks, but Silene isn't thinking of that—she's thinking of how to proceed from here. Stage one is obviously complete. Zabha doesn't ask Silene to apologise again, and Silene doesn't—although she would if pressed (lies are an easily acquired currency). Zabha talks about her sister, her mother, but Silene has no family to speak of, and after a while spent catching up they run out of words. The silence between them is heavy with unspoken offenses. Silene weaves her way towards the necessary topic.

"Are you happy now, Zabha?" Silene asks. "Is this what you dreamed of?"

"I nevah dreamed a' bein' friends wit _you_, dat's fa sure."

"I meant... you know. The goblins. And the money. And no more magic."

Zabha narrows her eyes. "Yeah, I still _magnificent_, if dat's what ya askin'. I jus' do a _differen'_ magic now. Ya gotta point? Ya betta _make it_."

Silene mulls over her next words for a few seconds. Best to proceed delicately from here. "I remember you from before. You were talented. Surely you never thought you'd end up like this?"

Silene is sure she feels the heat from her blush; the living are so obvious. "I 'spose not, 'dough it's none a ya business."

"No," she agrees. "It isn't my business."

Once all the plates have been cleared by Kani's relatives and the hired servers, the long process of giving and opening wedding presents can begin. Zabha and Silene line up behind the other guests, Silene utterly dwarfed by everyone around her, and feeling more than a bit claustrophobic.

She and Zabha have little to say to each other, though they wouldn't be able to hear each other over the din anyway. The line moves slowly, and it takes almost three-quarters of an hour for them to reach the front. Kani and her husband Kaghzash are sitting side-by-side at the back of the tent, cross-legged on a magnificent quilt that looks to be of tauren make.

"Thank you for coming, my friend," Kani says. Her formality breaks, and there is a grin. "And sorry about earlier."

"My wife has a temper," Kaghzash says, giving Kani a look of reproach.

"For you, my friend," Silene says as sincerely as she can. She hands Kani the gift she has been carrying around in her pack since she was invited to the wedding. It is an ornamental arrow, made of a metal so black it seems to absorb the light around it. The bristles on the end are metal as well, but fine enough that they bend like real hairs.

Kani and Kaghzash admire it for a moment, Kani turning it over in her hands. "Thank you," she says. "It is a fine gift. I will treasure it."

"This is no ornament," Silene says. "It's made of adamantite, from Nagrand, treated to give it that magnificent colour."

Kani raises her eyebrows, but it is Kaghzash who answers. "Then you honour us both, friend."

Silene bows and moves to stand a little way off from the line, watching Zabha, waiting to see her gift. The moment of truth, where she finds out whether she's been wasting her time, if Zabha as she remembers her, with her gems and her jewels that could flatter a king, has died completely.

She is not disappointed.

"I got nuttin' for ya, mon," she says to Kaghzash, who laughs. "Sorry, I'm teasin'. I couldn' resist, bruddah. Dis is for you." She hands him a small golden hoop earring that looks to be engraved with some sort of design, painstakingly delicate. Silene struggles to see, but Kaghzash speaks up.

"A hunting scene," he says. "It is beautiful. Thank you."

"And for ya gorgeous lady, I got sometin' even betta."

It is a circlet unlike any Silene has seen before, a laurel wreath of shining metal so delicate it seems to catch the breeze, each leaf a different shade of red. Rubies glint where the branches interlock. She lays it gently on Kani's head, and it seems to burn like fire against her black hair.

"You outdo yourself, Zabha," Kani says. She looks visibly touched. "I know times are not easy for you, but this is truly beautiful."

"Yeah, mon, I got ta get ya somethin' good. Like you'd let me live it down if I got ya some cheap brews."

When they are finished having their laugh, Zabha joins Silene and they make their way outside. The air is still too hot, but it is a relief after the inside of the tent. She notices that Zabha will not look at her.

"Nice gift," she says. "Made it yourself?"

"Yeah, but don't get ya hopes up—it wouldn' _suit_ you."

"I was just wondering how an indentured servant of the Steamwheedle Cartel got her hands on the components for an item like that."

Zabha looks at her sideways, and Silene sees the shadow of the woman she was before. "I got my ways, mon. Dat's all ya need to know."

The sun is beginning to set over Durotar and the orange earth seems to glow as though lit from within. This used to be the time of day she loved best. They say nothing for a long time, watching as Kani's stepmother and half-sisters lift back the flaps of the tent, opening it to the cool air, watching the other revellers mingle. The goblins are singing a song Silene doesn't know—something about sky-captains and a deadly love triangle—and as the sun dips below the horizon, the first sounds of drums begin to echo through the crowd. Silene feels the vibrations in her teeth.

Kani and her mate are the first to move out under the sky. A half-circle forms behind them, every eye trained on the pair. Silene and Zabha watch, and as the roll of drums blends together into a steady cadence, the two newlyweds begin to dance. Kani dances beautifully, her movements as light and graceful as a bird's wings. Even her mate surprises Silene with his rhythm, his feet, which had previously seemed huge and ungainly, shuffling through the dirt like ripples across water. Then Kani's female relatives move out from under the tent as well. There is not an awkward performer amongst them, not a single poor ear or clumsy foot, and even the old women dance with such grace that Silene is momentarily transfixed.

"Orcish dancing," she says. "I'll be _damned_."

Zabha says nothing.

"You should join," Silene says. "She needs you to be her sister, since Yobiake isn't here."

Zabha turns to stare at her expressionlessly. Her face is stark but lovely, geometrical and perfect as a well-made construct.

"What do ya want from me?" she says. Her voice is resigned. "Jus' aks, 'cause I know dat it's somethin'."

"So suspicious. Perhaps I simply wanted to bury the hatchet."

Zabha snorts. "Far's me sees, you ain't buried nuthin', mon."

Silene laughs. "You know me so well."

"No, mon, I guess I don', 'cause I just keep thinkin' da best of ya."

"Maybe you judged me too harshly." She turns back to the group, watching them, feeling—what? Is it longing? Sadness? She tries to remember if she liked to dance, tries to remember if she was any good, but remembering just makes her head hurt, and she can never tell recollection and imagination apart. "Now go on," she says. "I know you want to. I won't be offended."

In answer, Zabha touches her, gently, on the shoulder and runs over to Kani. The crowd melts away before her.

Silene hangs back, admiring their utterly alien splendour, admiring the way they both force their smiles, though she sees things that the other guests do not: the tinge of sadness to Kani's, the way Zabha's looks more like a grimace of pain.

As soon as night falls, she disappears down the road that leads to Orgrimmar.

( )

She waits in the shadows for what seems like hours, but Silene does not get tired, nor does she worry. Zabha has always been predictable, and she will stay at the same inn she always visits, returning to Ratchet the next day. And sure enough, a little after midnight, there she is, Zabha, staggering through the gates of the gates of the city, looking a bit drunk and happier than Silene has seen her in a while. Silene watches her blow a kiss to the two guards stationed at the entrance, and then she takes off after her, being sure to remain in the shadows. But Zabha doesn't look back anyway.

The inn she is staying in is set deep within the Drag, the area of Orgrimmar always engulfed in shadow regardless of the time of day. At night the darkness becomes almost a living entity, and even the torchlight barely pierces it. She watches Zabha enter a high stone hut, its steps crooked and its roof warped. She closes the door softly behind her.

Silene crouches in the shadows for a few more minutes, watching the street to see if anyone approaches, giving Zabha time to go back to her room. Then she slips into the inn herself.

The inside is comfortably dark and dingy, a fire burning low in the pit at the centre of the room. The innkeeper regards her suspiciously. "We've got no rooms."

"Fortunately, I desire none. I'm looking for a friend, a lady troll. Tall, very beautiful, silver hair..."

The innkeeper scowls. "What do I look like, a brainless peon? I'm not going to have some thug breaking my guests' legs. I don't want any trouble here."

Silene reaches into her pocket and withdraws a gold coin. "Nor do I," she says, and places it on the counter. "Come, good man."

The innkeeper's manner changes abruptly. He smiles and tosses the piece into his pocket. "Top floor, first room on the right, with the red door."

She makes her way upstairs, cautiously navigating her way up the twisted ramp; the slant to it makes her feel like she is constantly about to tumble off the side. There are a few orcs at the top smoking pipes, and though they give her angry looks they say nothing.

When Silene knocks on the door, she half-expects Zabha not to answer, or else to know who she is. But she's surprised.

"Who's _dere_?" Zabha says, her voice a purr. "Don' be shy, bebbe."

"The sexy milkman," Silene says. Her bedroom voice isn't quite as convincing.

The door opens with a slam that echoes off of the walls of the inn.

"I t'ought I got ridda ya," Zabha says. Silene watches without curiosity as her knuckles turn white from where she's gripping the frame. She has this affect on people.

"I'm like a dirty secret," Silene says. "The less you want me, the more I'm going to dog you."

"Yeah, mon, I got dat figured out." Zabha glances over Silene's shoulder and, convinced that no one is watching, pulls her inside. "Ya gonna tell me what in da spirit's names ya want?"

"You going to shut the door?"

"Oh, anyt'in' for yaself," Zabha says, but she obeys. Silene likes that: cheekiness without purpose is a sign of the helpless. All the better for her.

The inside is cramped but bright and surprisingly cozy, the floor strewn with cushions and furs, an incense burner letting off sweet smell that makes Silene's stomach churn. And then, there it is, set in a recess in the wall, a low table that Zabha has filled with pieces of glass, yards of cheap filligree, parchment, weak settings, brightly-coloured chemicals in beakers and some other things Silene doesn't recognise. An impoverished jeweller's station. Zabha doesn't really look the part. She's wearing a rather skimpy, semi-opaque sarong.

"You look lovely, my dear," Silene says. "All dolled-up for work. But what sort of work?"

Zabha doesn't answer.

"Or maybe you're looking so pretty just for me." She seats herself right in the middle of the room, choosing a particularly soft-looking pile of furs. "I can't say that happens often."

"Silene, if ya just came to make funna me, ya can fuck right off—"

"Well, you know, I have so little to do, I can just take trips to Orgrimmar for my own amusement," Silene says. "But sadly, I have reasons other than pleasure for coming here."

"And dose are?"

Silene gestures at the work bench. "I'm glad to see you're still sticking with what you're good at. It's fortunate. My patron has a request."

Zabha's laugh is so bitter it reminds Silene of one of her own. "Ya _patron_. And who, pray tell, is _dat_?"

"I can't tell you, Zabby," Silene says. "I know you don't normally work for strangers—"

"I don' work _period_."

"Oh, yes? And what do you call what you're doing now?"

"Tinkerin'." Zabha's petulant expression does nothing to endear her to Silene.

"Tinkering. Like a little gnome, I suppose, in your little laboratory."

"Leetle gnome, leetle blow-hard," she says. "Whatsa difference? Dey all wort' _shit_."

"You wore the title like a badge of pride, once," Silene says. The scorn in her voice surprises even her. "What changed?"

"Alotta things," Zabha says. "You wouldn' understan' any a dem'."

Silene rises. "No, I suppose not. I make my own way. I thought you were the same, but it turns out they can break you—just like everyone else. Piss on that."

When she reaches the door, she touches the handle, and then turns, as if suddenly remembering something. "You and Kani are close, aren't you?" she says.

"Yeah, not dat you'd understan' dat, eiddah."

"Hm. I suppose not. It's funny though... but never mind, _I'd _never understand."

A pause. "What are ya sayin'?"

Silene pretends to be surprised. "What do you mean? I thought this conversation was over."

"Spit it out, ya rotten beetch," Zabha says. She looks dangerously close to fury. Silene knows she is walking a fine line.

"Very well—I'll not sport with your intellect. Kani has a younger sister," she says. "Yobiake, I believe her name is, a nice girl. She served the Horde in Alterac Valley."

Zabha says nothing, but her eyes are burning. _Aha_, Silene thinks. _Not such a fool after all, are you._

"You'll note I say served, and not serves. Kani undoubtedly told you that Yobiake is extremely unwell, but she knows less than she thinks. Yobiake has had a most unfortunate incident. Her group was ambushed a week ago. Yobiake lives, but barely; she suffered a nasty fall. Both of her legs are broken, her skull is cracked, and she's yet to wake up. That I found her was a mercy—she nearly drowned in her own blood."

"An' ya didn' see fit ta stay wit her." Zabha doesn't sound horrified—just resigned. "What da hell is wrong wit ya?"

"There was no need. Yobiake will awake in due time." She lets go of the handle. "Only... suppose she _doesn't_? It would be a shame if she never awoke, wouldn't it? If she simply died in her sleep?"

Female trolls are weaker than males, and Zabha is no fighter, her frame willowy and slim, but the force with which she grabs Silene's throat and slams her into the wall stuns her.

"I'm gonna snap ya neck," Zabha says. Her voice is low, close to a growl. "I'm gonna snap ya miserable, filt'y neck, and den I'm gonna burn ya stinkin' corpse."

Silene coughs. Third head trauma today. "My patron will be most displeased."

"Ya patron can suck a cock."

"Maybe you can give him some pointers."

Zabha shoves her hard against the door. Silene sees lights flash from the pain. "My muddah told me two t'ings. 'Don't trust no man wit ya money,' was da first. And da second was, 'Don't let no one shame ya wit what ya are.' Zabha may be a cock-sucka, but she ain' no murdera."

"Look, I don't get any pleasure from these threats. If you'd just _agree_ like a reasonable individual, I wouldn't—"

"I ain't gonna build no torture chamber, or mind-controlla, or whateva," Zabha snarls. "Why dontcha aks one a ya nice dead friends to build ya your gadgets, den?"

"I can't ask them. My patron forbids it." And Silene knows why. Undercity is full of eyes, friendly and otherwise.

"Sylvanas." Zabha doesn't hide her revulsion at the idea.

"Don't ask me anymore questions."

"I'm gonna aks all da damn question I like," Zabha says. "Ya want somet'in from me, ya gonna huma me."

"Light, use your _brain_," Silene says. "If I were serving my Mistress, would I ask a troll? No, I'd have stayed in Undercity, rather than riding around in this hellhole and putting up with your abuse."

Zabha frowns. "It ain't like you to serve two Mastahs. Yah first loyalty was always to da Dark Lady. What changed?"

"Nothing. It's not like me to go to parties, but here we are."

Zabha studies her for a moment, and then releases her. "I can't trust ya to be honest," Zabha says. "But I can trust ya to be yaself."

"Then trust in that. It's my hour of damn need," Silene says.

Zabha smiles wanly. "Zabha knows _dat _feelin' real well."

"Look, I don't know what happened to you, to make you pursue this line of work—"

"No, ya don't," Zabha says.

"Damn it, Zabha, just listen," Silene snaps. "I don't know what happened, and I don't much care. I have to ask you to do this. I have no choice, either."

"Aks, den."

"My patron needs a very special item. You're the only one who can do it."

"Aks." Her voice is completely flat.

"He needs you to build him a statuette that can blind anyone who tries to scry on him while in its vicinity."

"Oh yeah? What for?" Zabha does not look impressed.

"Oh, well, you know, a party trick. For _security_, you dolt."

Zabha rolls her eyes. "Dat's easy-peasy. He want a house alarm. What else? He want it to summon a magical pony?"

"Don't be so facetious," Silene says. "If he just wanted any anti-scrying device he could go to any damn jeweller. This needs to completely disable the items used for scrying, and blind the user—preferably permanently. And it needs to work on everything."

"Includin' scryin' orbs?"

"Including fucking peeping toms." Zabha cracks an uncertain smile: the heat is on. "Look, just figure it out, but it needs to be _small_, however you do it. Small enough to take on a Zeppelin. No prep time on his end." She pauses, thinking. "And no poisonous vapours."

Zabha rubs her chin. The cogs in her head are turning, Silene can see now. She smiles.

"Practical concerns, dear Zabby?"

"Yeah—concerns dat I'm gonna be helpin' overthrow some goblin trade prince and get mi ass nailed to da mast of a ship."

"There's no conflict of interest." Silene sees the risk, but makes the move anyway. She turns her voice soft, almost tender. "Zabby, I know what's been going on with you, alright? Everyone knows. This could be your chance, don't you see? My patron is very, very rich. He can help you pay your debts."

Zabha does not strangle her. She simply stares at Silene, her face unreadable. "I ain' gonna hold out no hope for dat," she says. "But I do need da gold."

"You'll have all the test subjects you need."

"And I don' suppose dey'll be _consentin'_," she says.

"They're slaves, if that's what you're asking." Better to be honest on this point. She knows Zabha, and she knows her stupid principles. Better to be upfront and talk her into it from here than have her bail in the future.

"Slaves," Zabha says. Her red eyes have lost their malice; now they are merely curious. "Slaves is banned in da new Horde."

"There is banned and there is _banned_. Zabha, if you don't understand how these things work, then you undoubtedly acquired your name by being Magnificently Dense."

Zabha laughs. "Yeah, I know. I got two options here: a goblin. Or an elfie."

"You _are_ a smart one."

"And da best jeweller on dis side o' da Maelstrom," Zabha says.

"Do we have a deal?"

"What about da gold? Reagents like dat are dear." She grins. "And den der's da matta of _my fee_."

"My patron has explicitly said that money is no object. Name your price."

"I'm gonna need diamond-dusted vials for dis."

"They're yours."

Zabha's eyebrows rise. "I'm gonna want Frost Lotus—to hol' da charge of da metal. Dat _only_ grows in Northrend."

"The gold will be provided. Anything else?"

She flutters her eyelashes. "An' for mah expertise, I'm gonna have to charge by dah hour. I foresee many, many hours a work on a problem like dis."

"Your fee, Zabha?"

She touches her chin, feigning. "Seventy-five gold an hour."

"Done."

The share a rather dusty bottle of rum in celebration, which Silene is grateful for because it seems to diminish the throbbing in her head. The matter is settled, though Silene has to insist on writing up a contract, while Zabha just wants to seal it with a handshake. They do both, but Silene isn't worried. Zabha is many things—a mage, a whore, an entrepreneur of questionable repute—but she isn't a liar.

That's her domain.

As she's heading to the door, Zabha places her three fingers on Silene's shoulder. "Dere's one last t'ing: da girl, Yobiake. If she dies, dis is off—an' I rip out ya heart and eat it."

"I suspect it's quite inedible. Never fear, though. Yobiake will be given the finest medical treatment available to her, compliments of myself and The Royal Apothecary Society."

Zabha narrows her eyes. "Thanks, mon, I'm real _relieved _to hear of dere involvement_._ But I ain't joking. If ya play a card 'pon me, Silene, I'll send ya back to da grave ya dragged yaself from. And dat's me bein' merciful—I'll be _sparin'_ ya from Kani."

Silene brushes a long, lank lock from her eyes. "You would find it less painless than you expect. But you have nothing to fear. My patron is a man of his word."

"Oh yeah?" Zabha rolls her eyes. "Is he good ta ya?"

Silene smirks. "His gold is."

"I nevah knew ya as a mercenary type. Guess I was wrong 'bout dat, too."

Silene pretends to be feeling around in her pockets for a knife. "A mercenary, you say? Am I armed? Have I spilt blood?"

"Not yet."

"Like you, Zabha, I am many things." She smiles. "But I am no mercenary."

They go downstairs together, and Zabha walks her to the door. There is no noise in the Drag at this time of night save for the occasional crunch of the guards' boots and the sound of water dripping somewhere far away. Even the night air of Durotar is stifling, and Silene longs for the cool darkness of Undercity, its labyrinthine canals and her still, cold room. But now her mission is complete, and she can go home, home to her station in the hospital, to her _real_ work. The thought makes her almost giddy. She takes Zabha's hand in a mimic of chivalry. "It's been a pleasure, as always, my fair Lady Zabha."

Zabha snatches back her hand. "What are ya _up_ ta, Silene?"

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small bag of gold, weighing it in her palms. "My dear Zabha," Silene says, "_I _am up to nothing. I am merely following orders." She tosses it to Zabha, who catches it deftly. "My patron expects this with due haste. Don't disappoint him."


	6. V

Disclaimer: The inimitable World of Warcraft and the characters, settings, and languages it contains are the property of Blizzard. I make no claim to them; this fic is not intended for commercial use. The quote from the summary is, of course, also Blizzard's property.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in this chapter. I had far less exciting work to be getting to—it, unfortunately, had to take precedence. I will try to avoid such huge gaps in updates in the future! Hopefully the length will compensate for the wait.

**The Undying **  
PurityRabbit

V

Sunday mornings in the Spire are the best time for getting work done. Instead of heading into his office, however, Rommath returns to his estate. The streets are awakening now, as much as the streets in the Scholar's District ever do: smoke wafts out of open windows far above him, coiling around the floating shrubbery, and a few elderly Magisters amble down the road arguing about their research, heads together. On the opposite side of the street a group of House Summerswan guards saunter by, dressed in their magnificent feathered cloaks and winged helms, and Rommath watches them warily. But nobody looks at him twice. In his plain black robes, with his simple wooden staff, he is not the Grand Magister. He can be invisible.

This is the part of Silvermoon he knows best, the part he carried with him when he was in Outland, the memory of home: her dozen teeming libraries, her minarets that arc upwards farther than you can see, her quiet, shadowy boulevards lined with trees. He knows he's being a blind fool. He knows that open sewers, brothels, and workers who work themselves to death are no less Silvermoon than the things he loves. But those parts lie on the far side of the city, separated from him by his high birth and her high white walls.

He dismounts his hawkstrider once he is within his grounds again and leads her to the shed nestled on the far side of the property, guiding her with one hand on her neck. He is unreasonably sentimental with the creature, a source of endless amusement for the unsentimental nobles—he has even gone so far as to _name_ her, which is almost unheard of, the behaviour of coarse trackers and Farstriders. Blackfeather, his pride and joy. She clucks at him, and nips at his shoulder hard enough to draw blood.

The cool darkness of her nest-house is a relief; the unseasonable warmth of the day has made riding more tiring than it should be. When he shuts the door behind them, she unfurls her wings, nearly filling the room, and Rommath has to step back to avoid being knocked off his feet. Her black feathers glint with purple and green in the light, more brilliant by far than the jewels in her harness. He pulls it off, gently unhooking the clasps, and strokes her neck.

"She needs a rub-down," someone says from behind him. He turns. The stable boy is sitting on the dirt floor, reading a book. "They get fussy when there's eggs about. Shall I, my lord?"

Rommath smiles. "Later, thank you. It is not so warm out; she sweated far less than I."

"As you will, my lord." He turns back to his reading.

Rommath pokes at the book with his staff. "Your attention is divided. What could possibly be so engaging?" The boy holds up the book so that Rommath can see its cover. "'The Breeding of Hawkstriders, on the Basis of Desirable Traits and Those That Needs Must Be Purged'." He laughs. "Is this your idea of fun, boy?"

"Not fun, my lord." He nods to Blackfeather, settling herself into her nest making noises between a cluck and a hiss. "That's a special bird you've got."

"She is magnificent, is she not?" Rommath agrees, for what feels like the hundredth time.

"And you don't know where she came from?"

"She was a gift, child. It would have been unkind to ask."

"I've never seen her like. I think we should breed her, my lord," the boy says. "It isn't right that her line die out."

Rommath sighs, but for some reason the fact that this issue is continually being pressed does not bother him. Perhaps it's the boy's youth that makes it tolerable. "We have discussed this. She is remarkable _because_ she is unique. Would she be so extraordinary with four or five like her?"

"They wouldn't be just like her, my lord." He gestures to his book. "Real black is a rare colour in a hawkstrider. It needs to be nurtured over generations, and even then the shade isn't always true."

Rommath laughs, and tosses him her halter. "You know much. I can tell you've been studying." The boy beams, but Rommath shakes his head. "Blame it on my vanity, child. I will take nothing less than perfection. She must be one of a kind."

The boy shrugs. "I suppose it's fitting, my lord. She does suit you well, and it's not everyone who can ride a beast like that."

Rommath smiles, feeling a strange sort of nostalgia, remembering without regret. It could have been another lifetime: her harness in his hand, the eyes of the convocation on him, his brothers' envy, his father's pride. _She is the jewel of her kind, as you are, my friend_...

( )

Inside the house, Rommath does not return to his office but instead takes the servants' backstairs down into the basements, past the kitchen and their quarters before emerging into his cellar.

It is far cooler down here, pleasantly dark and dry, and a faint breeze coming from the lower levels stirs his hair. He has to stoop to avoiding hitting his head against the low ceiling. This is one of the deepest levels of the manor, though still above the catacombs and the vaults, and he feels the pressure of the entire house weighing on him. He gropes his way down the narrow passage with his staff, supporting himself against the wall, half-blind in the dark. At the end of the corridor he raises his hand, lighting all the sconces with a motion. Dim light fills the chamber, flickering against the stone walls though not quite illuminating all the dark corners or the passageway beyond.

The Morningstorm wine cellars extend into the darkness, unfathomably large, dwarfed only by the family tombs. For about a year, Rommath did not have any reason to go down here: the collection survived the Scourge, only to be destroyed during the civil war as infernal blasts swept through the city, rocking the house to its foundations. The precious vintages turned in their casks, the musky reds from the Golden Summer and the sweet ice wines from the north. All gone. But Rommath isn't much of an enthusiast anyway.

Their replacement more than makes up for it. And there it is: his refuge, his oasis, his port in a storm. A magically-barred hermetically-sealed windowless nook. His study.

From outside, the entrance looks like nothing more than another pyramid of barrels—a well-crafted illusion. Rommath taps his ring three times against the topmost one before whispering the words his first master took as her motto the day she became an Archmage.

The barrels drop down into the floor below him and the door they concealed swings open, revealing the interior: high, cold steel walls, sparse furnishings, experimental equipment, and his desk. His safe is by far the biggest object in the room; taller than he is, embedded in the far wall, its door forbidding black. Rommath took no chances with this, spared no expense. This is where his work is—his work, and his most prized magical possessions.

Rommath has heard people talking about the wealth of House Morningstorm. Some say it lies in the family's remaining land holdings to the northeast, criss-crossed by some of the richest ley lines in Quel'Thalas. Some say it lies in his mother's jewels, though Rommath knows that she carried most of them to her funeral pyre. And some particularly romantic fools say it lies in the beauty of his two surviving sisters, the Black Diamond and the Black Widow.

But the truth is that it lies here: behind a foot-thick iron door, five locks, three magical barriers and his own reputation as a tyrant. Fifteen pounds of pure Saronite.

The first time he had seen the stuff, Rommath had dropped it, recoiling in revulsion. Saronite radiates horror as palpably as though it were some sort of vapour, with veins of mineral that throb with unliving blood. For all that, the stuff is worth more than four times its weight in gold. With the price he paid for it he could have covered his fingers in diamonds so huge he wouldn't be able to lift his hands, but that's not really his style. Organic black metal that could make Rhonin Redhair piss his pants in terror: that is Morningstorm style.

He barely pays attention to the safe as he works through its physical and magical locks, humming with impatience. The interior is large enough for him to walk into, and the lights are blindingly bright. He passes his acquisitions without a glance: his experiments of varying legality, stolen relics of unimaginable age, magical gadgets of gnomish make.

The brick he has been examining is at the back of the safe, set in a bedding of straw and feather and wrapped in silk, although as far as Rommath can see it's a needless luxury. Nothing he does to it can dent the stuff, much as Astalor had told him. "Garrosh Hellscream's two-handed blow could not chip this metal. But don't tell him I said that," he'd added.

He pulls it out of the safe, losing his balance a little; the lightness of it still surprises him, and he barely feels it, carrying it back to his desk. Ever the good scholar, he remembers himself at the last moment and pulls on his work gloves, though he has no idea if there is any risk to handling the stuff directly, or, if there is, whether there is any possible protection to be had from it at all. He lifts it gingerly from the setting, watching it; it seems almost as if it is inhaling.

"They call it the black blood of Yogg-Saron," Astalor had said, "but I don't believe in ghosts and I don't believe in Gods. I believe in _money_, and I believe it's selling for eight thousand gold a hit now."

Rommath had paid him more: eighty-five hundred gold a bar, plus the cost of having it shipped from Northrend (only goblins were willing to deal with the stuff), plus one of his collapsing vacation homes in the Ghostlands to pay for Astalor's silence.

He knows he's breaking laws that haven't even been written, but the research is so exciting, so _new_. If he had to be honest with himself, he would have to admit that he is a little afraid of it, a little uncertain of his own wisdom. He could, for all he knows, be putting himself in serious danger—what if it is toxic? No one knows anything scientific about it, for all that it's used in weaponry—he's been through every book in the library, even going so far as to swallow his pride and have a Sunreaver supporter send him scrolls from the Dalaran archives. It's all nonsense and fairy-tales: stories about cursed creatures, turned to stone for their unspeakable crimes, or the petrified eggs of the long-dead aqir. But most of all, stories about horrors that sleep, neither alive nor dead, beneath the earth, their acidic blood tunnelling through the ice.

What he knows is that the Scourge used it in their constructions, smelting it in their hellish forges, and that try as he might he can't do anything with it. In fact, he isn't even sure what he _wants_ to do, but he's certain that there's a reason nothing can hurt it, a reason it is more like an organism than inert stone. Why is it that when he picks it up, it squirms as if trying to break away from his grasp? Why is it that sometimes, sometimes, when it is late at night and he is frustrated and on the verge of sleep, it seems to throb with life and sound, as if it is singing to him?

Nobody has had any answers. And all that anyone has done with it is make axes. And guns. And helms. And probably a few fabulously impractical catapults that take fifty orcs to move. What it really calls for is scholarship: good old-fashioned elven publications in good old-fashioned peer-reviewed elven books.

He shakes himself out his daydreams and places the metal on a stand in the middle of the room, trying to hold it as far away from his body as he can. Glancing up, he peers at the diagrams he has pinned to the walls: sketches of its crystal structure, which, based on his readings, is extremely strange; a geological cross-section of the regions in Northrend that one of his agents stole from a hapless gnome mage, marked to show the areas from which ore was extracted.

He pulls a small diamond blade from his desk and for the thousandth time attempts to scratch the surface with it, though he knows it is pointless; indeed, all he manages to do is strike a few sparks onto himself. Rommath puts out his smouldering sleeve, cursing. When he peers at the blade through his loupe, he sees that the edge is scratched and ragged.

He wishes he had a way to test its ductility, though it cannot be brittle, that he's sure of; even a mage knows that splintering armour protects no one. If he could get a better idea of the way in which it deforms, he could know more about it—where it comes from, for example, how far below the ice sheets of Northrend it forms. It frustrates him to think that his experimental apparatuses are so limited. And it isn't exactly as if he can march into the Journeyman's District with bars of Saronite tucked under his arms, asking to use the greatforge and the anvils.

_Patience_, he tells himself. It has, after all, only been four months, and he has made some headway. But he doesn't feel patient. He needs a better microscope—goblin-make, preferably—which he hasn't been able to find, and access to a forge hot enough to do _something_ to it. Even his pyroblasts are useless; one night, in a fit of anger, he'd just let loose on the thing, demolishing two of his chairs in the process and nearly burning his papers to ash. When he'd touched the metal, it was barely warm.

He contents himself with more visual examinations and more drawings; when the pressure-machine he specially ordered from Everlook arrives, he can start the first real experiments, but for the time being he has to content himself with amateur science. He examines the surface carefully, looking for signs of oxidisation, but sees none: a small relief, though not unexpected. Nothing seems able to detract from its dark lustre, although he needs to experiment with some stronger acids to verify that. Still, he's certain that if it could survive the journey from Northrend to Quel'Thalas, it can survive more than a short-term stint in his holdings.

He doesn't leave it out for more than an hour; partly because he doesn't want to leave it open to the air for too long, and partly because no matter how much he tells himself that it is just inert matter, powerless and unremarkable, as solid and dead as iron or gold, he never quite believes it. Indeed, that is the theory he intends to test, though he isn't yet sure how—that the metal is in some intermediary stage between living and nonliving, possessing the properties of both and, really, the properties of neither. The possibility is fascinating, but the idea of it makes him more uncomfortable than he would like to admit. And his fear makes him stupid: he thinks more slowly, jumps more readily. And he notices that when he spends too long on it he has dreams that make his usual nightmares look tame.

After returning it to its place and ensuring the safe is secured, he shuts off all the lights and leaves the way he came, passing by the barrels of wine he will never drink. He should give some to Astalor—the man is one of the few really competent Magisters, and his loyalty is unwavering. Rommath takes a look at a vintage and makes a face. "The only thing worse than a cheap wine is a cheap woman," his father had once announced to his sons while hunting.

"Who cares?" Fanalen had whispered to Rommath. "Just so long as she's a cheap drunk." And of course father had heard and of course they'd both been sent to their rooms without any supper, but it was just as well—they still laugh about it together. And now his father is as dead as all the other Morningstorms, his bones resting in their case in the family ossuary. Perhaps it's for the best. He was always squeamish about doing what needed to be done.

( )

Although his head is buzzing when he reaches his chambers, he does attempt to do something with his hair: his reflection is enough to startle even him, so windswept and forbidding does he look. As groomed as he ever is, he moves to his desk, taking out his pen and the stack of proposals Astalor has sent him to approve. He frowns at the enormous number stamped with the Blood Knight insignia: requests for new armour and weapons, more recruits to replace the dead and deserted, better training facilities. Vranesh has not even bothered to sign them himself. No doubt he believes paperwork is beneath him.

It's been over two years since he'd cast his son out, but thinking about it still makes him seethe. Rommath has never found it easy to forgive and forget, and Vranesh is as proud as he is, perhaps even prouder, drunk with youth and power and his undeserved esteem. Rommath knows that women adore Vranesh, tall and dark and striking, with his flaming sword and challenging stare, and that men respect him for his prowess in battle. Some of them, anyway: the younger, stupider nobles. But prowess and good looks do not a group of belligerent knights control.

"How did I sire a fool like that?" Rommath once moaned while in his cups.

"Maybe he isn't yours," Father Nishil'ever said helpfully, but Rommath silenced him with a look and there have been no more discussions of Vranesh's paternity.

It should have been Lord Solanar, or even Bloodvalor, but Solanar had refused to adopt the position even temporarily, citing old age and battle weariness and his position in Northrend overseeing the return of the last soldiers; Bloodvalor was still in the infirmary a month-and-a-half after his return, having broken most of his bones after being thrown from an airship during an aerial engagement. So it had fallen to all the third-tier master Knights to scrabble for the head position and in the end Vranesh had come out at the top of the pile. Not surprisingly. For all that he's difficult and head-strong and temperamental, he's also more like his sister, more like Rommath, than either of them would like to admit. And at the very least, he's smart enough to remember who, precisely, watches him from the top.

Rommath taps his chin, thoughtful, but he is not so lost in brooding and paperwork that he misses the shadow that fills his doorway. A visitor, impossibly tall and hooded, leans against the frame. His ease is disconcerting.

"Good afternoon, my lord," the guest says, pleasant enough. But he doesn't pull back his hood.

Rommath blinks, forcing back the impulse to drive a flaming lance through the intruder's chest. "Who showed you in?" The servants are forgetting themselves.

"In fact, I showed myself in. My message is urgent, and most private."

Rommath grips his staff with his left hand, his right hand feeling for the dagger in his sleeve—the surprise of a blade-wielding mage has saved him on a few occasions. "And who, may I ask, sends this message?"

"A friend."

Rommath allows himself to bark out a laugh. "You'll have to excuse my incredulity. I have few enough friends."

"You have some." The intruder throws the cloak off to reveal a warped mockery of elven beauty: towering seven feet tall with the face of a monster, twisted ears and furred olive skin. Garel Zel'Sin: the Half-Blood.

As always, Rommath starts at the sight of him. "I never expect you to come in person."

"As if I would deny you, sweet prince." His bow is a parody.

"You risk much to come to Silvermoon."

"Perhaps," he says. "I would risk more to send the information by mail."

"Is it so dangerous, then?"

"That is your call to make." He gestures to a seat with his four-fingered hand. "May I?"

"As you wish," Rommath snaps. He slams the dagger down on the table, in plain view of Garel. His eyes widen a little.

"Wise of you to carry that toy around. There is much danger afoot, my lord."

Rommath waves him away brusquely. "If you've only come to share idle gossip, I suggest you show yourself out." He frowns. "I pay you to keep me informed. Now I hear there are grumblings amongst the nobles."

"Indeed there are." He doesn't look the least bit concerned. "You are aware, then?"

"Yes, a bit _late_. I had to hear it from Astalor Bloodsworn, of all people. Even _Goldcrank _knew_._"

"Astalor is a fool and knows nothing." He leans forward, his red-tinged eyes sparkling. "Treason is a desperate man's dish. Even I do not eat of it. No noble will be willing to risk the Old Death, after all."

"And yet there are traitors," Rommath says, "and there is treason."

"Indeed. There is treason all around us—in your own house, even. Quirdas is dead."

Rommath's mouth opens before he can stop himself. "_What_?"

Garel nods, looking pleased with himself. "Murdered—by a commoner. A deserter, to add insult to injury. Ah, as I said, Grand Magister: desperate men..."

"When?" He seems to be frozen. He barely remembers Quirdas—only her bright red hair and her smart mouth—but she is, was, his blood, however distantly. "How could this happen?"

Garel glances at the grandfather clock against the wall. "Oh, approximately... three hours ago. One of my cells saw Quirdas enter his apartment, and then there was the sound of some sort of altercation. The apartment is well-watched. Neither of them has left."

"Then she could be alive, could she not?"

"If she were alive, no matter how badly injured, she'd have raised an alarm. Quirdas did not strike me as the type to submit to being taken hostage."

Rommath sits back, trying to hide how shaken he is. "I see you do not know me at all, Garel. I will not take my vengeance. Let the Blood Hawks handle this, as they handle all crimes."

Garel looks uncomfortable. "I'm afraid that's... not a good idea, your Grace."

"And why is that? The law binds us all, noble and commoner alike."

"Well, that's the odd thing," Garel says. "You see, it wasn't binding on your little niece: Quirdas broke into his house."

There is a pause in which Rommath simply does not understand what he is hearing. "She broke into his house? Why would a noble lady want to break into the house of a commoner? What could possibly—"

Garel looks at him, curiously quiet. And then Rommath understands. "By the Sun, was this _Vranesh's _doing?"

Garel shrugs, and he at least has the decency to look miserable. "It appears so, your Grace."

He's on his feet in an instant. "I will summon my house guards," he says. "Disguise yourself, and lead them to the residence. I will have two of them sneak the boy out of the city."

"Two armed house guards, smuggling a criminal out of Silvermoon in broad daylight?" Garel shakes his head. "Hide him in your house until the storm has passed. He will be your friend and your prisoner both."

"What, and have him spread his stories to the servants and, by extension, everyone in Silvermoon?" Rommath moves to stand before his desk, allowing Garel to help him with his cloak. "No, he must be taken care of. We will protect him in return for his silence."

"And where do you propose to hide him?" Garel is clearly unimpressed.

"With my sister."

"Not the idiot one," Garel says, with what he must think is delicacy.

"No, _Zyranis_."

Shrugging, Garel tosses his own cloak around his shoulders. "It's as good a plan as any. In the meantime, do try not to get us both killed; I rather like my life, such as it is. Although," he adds, looking down at Rommath, "I suspect I'm rather more at risk than you."

"I assure you, Vranesh would like nothing more than to see me cooked over a spit. Now, cover up. I'm summoning my guards."

"Pray, have them hide the colours of House Morningstorm, at least," Garel says, pulling the hood down over his face again.

"What do you take me for?" Rommath says coldly.

"A nobleman," Garel says. His voiced is muted, as if he is speaking from far away. "You're so damned proud, you'd wear those solid-gold snake torques trying to swim."

"Proud," Rommath says, "but not proud enough to risk the ire of the Regent Lord. There will be no blood spilt in the streets under my name."

"But there _will_ be blood," Garel says, and Rommath does not correct him. He presses his fingers against the ruby setting in his ring. The air ahead of him churns as if in a whirlpool, becoming mirrored for a moment before it flashes and shows an image of his guards' barracks.

Captain Ori'lan's image appears immediately, his gentle face lined with worry.

"My lord," Ori'lan says, bowing. "What is it?"

"An emergency. Send me six of your men—three mounted, three not, and a spare hawkstrider for one of my arcanists."

"To Sunfury Spire?" Ori'lan sounds shocked.

"Merely to the courtyard. I am in need of an escort." Rommath moves to shut off the image, but remembers. "And try and be inconspicuous. Wear your old civilian armours."

"Your word is law," Ori'lan says. The image blinks out.

"My, this should be a pleasant little jaunt," Garel says, rubbing his hands together.

The guards are waiting for them outside, wearing unornamented plate, battered and unexceptional. Rommath is pleased—they look like a group of poor soldiers, out on the town for a smoke and some air, and the captain has come himself. Ori'lan has the extra hawkstrider in hand; he stands a bit apart from the rest, tall and dark, but he breaks into an uneasy smile when he sees Rommath. His junior guards, however, regard the hooded Garel with open distrust.

"Arcanist Vastalis here informs me that young Lady Quirdas has had a run-in with some thugs," he says. "We are going to rescue her—and to deal with her attacker."

"The lady's honour will not be tainted while I draw breath," Ori'lan says, and Rommath feels a tug of exasperation mixed with guilt. Quirdas had all the 'honour' of an unwashed pickpocket—she just dressed better. But if Ori'lan knows, it doesn't affect his loyalty in the slightest.

"Thank you, captain," Garel says. "We are most relieved to hear that the virtue of elvish ladies will remain untarnished."

Rommath shoots him a dirty look and turns back to his men. "Three of you," he says, gesturing to Captain Ori'lan and two of the other guards. "Mount up. You will follow Arcanist Vastalis to the house where Quirdas is being held. The rest of you, with me."

"Why does he hide his face?" The guard who spoke is young, bright-eyed and suspicious.

"He was disfigured during the Third War," Rommath says, as harshly as he can. The boy quails a little.

Ori'lan glares at him. "Show some respect, child, and do not question orders from your lord."

"Never mind," Rommath says. "If he does not like Vastalis, he shall come with me." It is an effective punishment: the boy looks crestfallen.

He leads Garel away from the group, keeping his grip firm on the half-blood's forearm. Rommath notices with relief that his hideous four-fingered hands are well-covered as well. "Bring the boy back to the estate immediately, and contact me once you do. If anything goes wrong, meet me in the Spire, at my office. And Garel: the guards are not to know that we were aware of her death, do you understand?"

"Obviously," Garel drawls. "And before you tell me, yes, I do know that I should avoid getting into any altercations with Blood Hawks or Knights or Magisters. Thank you ever so much for your concern."

Rommath and his guards linger in the courtyard, watching 'Vastalis' and his trio leave; it will be less conspicuous that way, although Rommath wishes he had an alternative to sending Garel himself—he's hardly unremarkable, though the benefit of his questionable background is that he can't run off with the enemy. Not when the enemy would love to cut his throat.

Where Garel's group rides south to the poorer part of town in which the boy lives, Rommath and his guards move east, staying well within the noble district. A few people, mainly ailing old men out on walks with their dazzling young wives, recognise him but don't seem to think anything of his company.

"Where are we going?" It is the boy who questioned him before.

"Sunfury Spire," Rommath says briskly. He makes a note to himself to keep an eye on the child. He's a bit _too _curious.

The Spire sits against the northernmost wall of Silvermoon, though it is in fact visible from every point in the city; from below it looks like a needle towering dizzyingly above the streets. The scrying orb atop it is amongst the most powerful in Quel'Thalas, second only to the one located on the Sunwell Plateau. Rommath prefers that one—it sees farther, and there is less risk of being seen—but any port in a storm will do. It's also unlikely to be in use on a warm Sunday afternoon which, for his purposes, is perfect.

The members of the Royal Guard stationed outside nod to him as he passes into the interior, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the darkness. Dim light filters through the small, red-tinted windows, high in the walls, and the black marble of the floor is lustreless. Above them, hanging from the twenty-foot ceiling, is an enormous chandelier that barely penetrates the gloom.

The Spire is always busy, even on resting days, though it is much quieter than during the week. A few of his Magisters bow to him as he passes, and there are some young squires running around, presumably on errands for their lords. They take no note of him, but his guards are vigilant, glancing about as they wait for the moving platform that will carry them to the top. Once he could have reached the scrying orb by foot, but he's feeling his age acutely—and he doesn't want to risk bumping into anyone who might try to speak with him.

They ascend slowly and in complete silence—too slowly for Rommath's liking—though his guards seem nervous from the movement and the darkness of the enclosed space.

"Does the platform ever... fall?" one of them asks.

"Not in my memory, though I suppose it could always happen, hm?"

None of them look particularly happy with his answer; when the platform's movement finally slows to a halt they rush past Rommath into the receiving room, seeming more than relieved.

The scrying orb stands on a terrace above them, open to the air. He and his guards climb up a final flight of stairs, and then they are there, at the top of the city, looking out over the sea to the north. So high up, the air is colder, the wind fierce. Rommath pulls his cloak tighter around himself, glad that he thought to bring it, and glad that he has no fear of heights.

"How far up are we, my lord?" the boy asks.

"Five hundred feet," Rommath tells him. The boy's face lights up, and he has to laugh. "Look out over the rail if you wish, but be careful! And no," he adds, "you may _not_ spit."

The guards laugh guiltily, and even he spares a chuckle. He himself had had the same urge as a child.

"I would have you guard the stairs," he tells them. "Do not tell anyone who I am, although you may, if that is the only way to keep them out. I am not to be interrupted unless it is an emergency, do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord," one of the guards says.

"Good. Excuse me. This shall hopefully be quite brief."

While they take their positions, Rommath approaches the orb, studying its depths: it churns with light that is oddly bright, golden even, glittering and warm. Breathing deeply, he clears his mind and lifts his hands to it, filling it with arcane energy.

Instantly his vision expands as if he is floating over the Spire, watching himself from above. It is a strange sensation—he sees his black hair loose from its bindings and whipped about his face from the wind, his eyes closed. Two of his guards block the stairs that lead up to the patio, and the boy is still leaning out over the rail.

He looks further east, towards Farstrider Square. He sees Brightwing immediately, his white-blonde hair and green mail visible even from the sky, taking a few practice shots at a target. He is with two men Rommath doesn't recognise, though judging from their attire they are rangers as well. Rommath doesn't like that he's hanging around the Blood Knight quarters, but there's nothing to be done for it.

Beyond that he sees the quarters themselves, the golden arch and red sheer curtains that cover the entrance. He swoops in closer, pressing through the roof of the building; it resists his gaze and then gives, like rubber tearing, and he is inside. He sees a few guards and acolytes, standing around or talking amongst themselves. He edges closer to hear them, but they say nothing particularly interesting and he quickly moves on. The longer he lingers, the more likely he is to be detected.

He has been to the Blood Knight quarters before, and he vaguely remembers his way around. He slides his gaze down through a hole in the floor that opens onto the deeper meeting chambers; the darkness is filled with arcane light only he can see, every corner lit under his gaze. The room is completely empty, but one of the doors on the far eastern side catches his attention: it is ajar, but all he can make out are dim shapes and the sound of indistinct whispering. A strange mist covers the room, an iridescent fog that he cannot penetrate. He squints but nothing comes into focus. When he tries to push through he comes up against a barrier. An anti-scrying device, then. Vranesh still knows him so well. This is promising.

He draws back for a moment, assessing it for weak spots, areas where the haze is thinner and not swirling as quickly. His vision contracts to a narrow point and then he is pushing through, feeling as though he is squeezing into a very small space—the device is powerful, surprisingly so, and he feels its resistance like a crushing weight, threatening to trap him. The effort is draining to the point where his vision starts to blur, but he holds firm, not slowing for a moment. He doesn't dare let up: some of these devices can blind unwary scryers permanently. And then the pressure suddenly abates, easing off like a fading headache, and he can see clearly again.

Rommath can feel his body breathing, faintly, at the top of the Spire. Breaking through the device took more out of him than he expected: he is getting tired, but he thinks he will be fine for just a few more minutes. The Blood Knights within are still murmuring. He recognises his son, Vranesh, engaged in conversation with two female knights. Holding his breath, he moves a little closer, slowly, so that they will not detect him.

"...not returned yet," one of the women is saying. Rommath cannot see her face. "What could have happened?"

"Patience, Sircassa," Vranesh says. "We shall know soon enough."

"I don't like this," she says. "It is not like Quirdas to be so tardy."

"I have sent my men." There is a definite note of impatience in his voice now. "What more do you ask of me?"

"I ask nothing of my Knight-Lord," she says.

"And if she's dead?" the other woman says. "If she failed, and he's already fled?"

Vranesh draws himself up. "Dead?" he says quietly. "Are you seriously suggesting that a coward, a _deserter_, could harm one of my knights?"

"Yes," she says. "I am, and seriously concerned that I may be correct. What if he slew Quirdas and is outside the city as we speak, riding for Liadrin's estate?"

"Then he would be doubly the fool," Vranesh says. "Liadrin doesn't shelter murderers. And at _any rate_ her estate is well watched. So we shall know that in short order, too."

"Then suppose he headed south, past the borders?" she says.

Vranesh waves her away. "I've dispatched a dragonhawk with a missive to the guards already," he says. "It should be there within three days. Birds fly faster than elves, Cyssa. The border is at least ten days of riding away. He won't make it."

"Ten days on a charger," she says. "Not a hawkstrider. And if he doesn't stay on the road? If he heads into the forest? Or if he buys passage with the goblins? You can't police every corner of Quel'Thalas. No man can."

Vranesh doesn't like that, he can tell. His petulant look does not become a true leader—if they were still speaking, Rommath would tell him that.

"Enough, Cyssa," he snaps. "We can sit here fretting over possibilities all day, but it achieves nothing. Just be calm, and by the Sun, stop _fidgeting_."

"Suppose we do get him," the first woman says. "What do you plan to do with him?"

"Interrogate him," the other one says. "Give him a scare. Rough him up, maybe."

"'_Rough him up_?'" Vranesh says. "What do you think this is, Orgrimmar? We are knights, not craven spies. We'll do no such thing. I intend to speak with him. If he is innocent, he shall find no harm at my hands."

"And if he isn't?" the second one says. "If he is _not_ innocent?"

Vranesh shrugs, giving a smile that Rommath supposes must be considered charming. "Innocent until proven guilty, my dear Cyssa."

Rommath could not be less convinced.

"You're too soft to traitors," the one named Cyssa says.

"Merciful," he says, wagging a finger. "It isn't _precisely_ the same thing."

"Nonetheless," she begins, but Rommath doesn't get to hear anymore. Suddenly he is rushing backwards, as if catapulted, hurtling madly away from the quarters, the square. Street and sky race past, spinning around each other, and he cannot stabilise the view, cannot catch himself. He sees the Spire rising up to meet him, and he braces, knowing what is coming.

He is back in his body before he can even think, hitting it as if he _had_ been thrown; all of his bones feel like they break at the same time, the wind rushing from his lungs. He blacks out for a second, feeling himself falling. And then he is caught, and he wakes up. His bones aren't broken. He hasn't fallen. He overexerted himself with the scrying orb, just like he always does. One of his guards is supporting him, and Rommath's breath is coming in ragged gasps. Rommath tries to push him away but his legs will not respond. He feels heavy, like his limbs are weighted.

"Sorry, my lord," the guard says. "You fell. I hope I didn't—"

"You did well," Rommath says, patting his shoulder awkwardly. "Scrying orbs require the energy of their user. This one is powerful enough to kill. And I suppose I forget my age at times." He gestures to the stairs. "There is little hope of finding anything else while I am in this state. Let us return to my office. I need to collect my thoughts."

He takes a few uncertain steps, feeling the weakness in his legs, wondering how far he can walk. He is still extremely tired, and at the top of the stairs, the boy puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"You may lean on me, my lord," he says kindly—a little too kindly. Old he may be, but Rommath is no one's grandfather.

"I do not _lean_, child," Rommath says. "Hand me my staff."

The platform carries them down a few floors to the one containing his office—below the vacant royal household and the Regent Lord's guest chambers, but still high enough to afford him with a magnificent view of the city. It is wasted on him.

One of his guards enters first, as always, peering into his closet and under his desk before waving him in. The last one shuts and bolts the door behind him.

"Pull down the curtains," Rommath orders, and the guards obey. His hands shake as he lifts his own anti-scrying device out of his desk and places it on the mantel. It will not protect him from the eyes of a powerful mage, but it should be enough for whatever bunglers Vranesh has been recruiting.

Now there is nothing to do but wait and consider his possibilities. If Ori'lan is successful he will keep the boy at his house for a few days before taking him south to Zyranis's manor. From there he can go where he will. And if Ori'lan does not succeed, if the Hawks get there first, it will be an issue of damage control. It cannot get out that the daughters of House Morningstorm behave like common criminals, that its sons defy their patriarch and their Regent both. Even if they do. Even if _every_ noble brat does.

He has no idea how long he is sitting at his desk, trying to calm his heart, listening to his breathing, scolding himself for taking such a risk. He knows better than to be careless with arcane power. And what if one of his enemies had overwhelmed his guards? He will be in no state to cast spells for hours. Vranesh's idiocy is not worth dying for.

There is a knock at the door. His guards tense immediately.

"My lord?"

"Let them enter," he says, looking up as they do. His guards have returned, and they stand in his doorway, shoulders heaving. He can see by the looks on their faces that the news is bad. "What is it?" He tightens his grip on the mantel. "Was he gone?"

Captain Ori'lan hangs his head. "My lord, we were too late. They were escorting the prisoner from the premises as we arrived."

Rommath looks at him sharply. "_Who, _precisely, were escorting him?"

"Blood Hawks, my lord," Garel says, his voice muffled from within his cloak. "We attempted to find out what happened; I asked them for a warrant."

"I'm assuming they did not produce one," Rommath says.

"They did not."

"Laughed at him for asking," Ori'lan says. "Told us to back off. I told them I'd report it to Aeldon Sunbrand—that got them good."

"I suppose it did," Garel says. "They threatened to cut off your fingers and relocate them to your anus."

Ori'lan flushes. "Like to see them _try_."

"Where have they brought him?" He doesn't know what answer would be worse: to the Blood Hawk dungeons with the drunks and the pick-pockets, or into the hands of Vranesh.

"To the Blood Knight quarters, my lord," Garel says.

Rommath straightens his back, though he'd like nothing better than to slump back; he feels even more utterly spent. "How did this happen? We acted quickly."

"It seems their lords were quicker, my lord."

Yes: quicker and with a contingent of Blood Hawks to Rommath's three guards and one devious agent, alternately old and tired or young and green. Rommath isn't sure how many of the city guards Vranesh has bought out, or whether the corruption goes right to the top. Blood Hawks and Blood Knights make strange bedfellows, but their roots are entangled, and the watch has never wasted any love on the Magisterium, or the Royal Guard, or the Farstriders.

Farstriders. He presses his fingers to his mouth, suddenly remembering.

"You may go," Rommath says, lost in thought. He watches as the six of them leave. Garel glances at him as well, and turns to depart, but Rommath raises a hand. "Not you, Vastalis. Sit down."

Garel obeys, perching on one of the low divans. "That was not the worst of it, my lord," Garel says, as if reading his mind. "I did not want to say so in front of the guards, but I took the liberty of dispatching one of my agents to the square ahead of them. Young General Brightwing was there."

"I saw," Rommath says, wearily. "And did he—"

"He saw," Garel says. "My cell told me that he appears to be quite displeased—and you know he has small liking for the Knights. I would prepare for the worst were I you, my lord."

Rommath swears the filthiest oath he can think of on several choicer components of the late Queen Laethil's anatomy. "Damn him! Light, what a lot of _fools_ he's made of us. Brightwing, oh, of course, who _else_." He rubs his temples, but on some level he is relieved. Looking weak and impotent in front of the Brightwing boy is a disaster, without question, but it could have been worse—it could have been one of his Magisters, or a Shiningray, or the Regent Lord.

He takes a breath, and then exhales. He cannot lose his head now—that is the luxury of lesser men. He must think through this clearly, and carefully navigate the matter, the fine balance between the honour of the Morningstorm name, his hold over the city, and his duties to his nation. The calibre of a noble's character is determined based on which side he leans most strongly to: his people, his power, or his gold.

"There is nothing to be done," he says after a moment of silence. "The Blood Knights have ever done as they will. And if Vranesh's duplicity is discovered, he will suffer as anyone else."

Garel nods, and rises. "As you will, my lord."

"Yes," Rommath agrees, "as we all will. You have been an enormous help. The guards appear to suspect nothing. Your fees will be delivered as they always are—and, of course, something extra. My way of saying thank you, Garel."

"My lord is most generous."

"He has to be," he says. "I trust you will keep quiet about this matter."

He thinks that he can see the half-blood smile, though through the shadows around his face Rommath cannot be sure. "Of course, my lord. Your word," he says, "is law."


End file.
